"  '  ■  •  • 


This 


MJE<- 


STATE  NORMAL  SQOUl, 

I»OS  HNGBIjES,  Cflh. 


At  thi  fountain     Santa  Barbara 


HIGHWAYS    AND 

BYWAYS 

OF   THE 

PACIFIC    COAST 

— 

Li  : 


'VJk 


!  S  0  4  3 


WRITTEN      AND 
ILLUSTRATED     BY 

CLIFTON    JOHNSON 


Published  by  THE     MACMILLAN     COMPANY 

New    York  McMVlll 

LONDON  :         MACMILLAN     AND    CO.,    LIMITED 


1908 


Copyright,  igoS, 

by  the  Macmiilan  Company. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped. 
Published  April,   1908. 


AMERICAN 
HIGHWAYS     AND     BYWAYS 


THE     PACIFIC    COAST 


Electrotyped 

and 

Printed 

by  the 

F.  A.  Bassette  Company 

Springfield,  Mass. 


SUE  NORMAL  SG 


Contents 

Page 

!• 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona 

I 

II. 

On  the  Borders  of  Mexico 

3° 

III. 

A  Rustic  Village 

52 

IV. 

Spring  in  Southern  California 

79 

V. 

Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission 

106 

VI. 

A  Vale  of  Plenty       .... 

12+ 

VII. 
VIII. 

April  in  the  Yosemite 
Around  the  Golden  Gate 

i+3 

166 

IX. 

A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past 

182 

X. 

Among  the  Shasta  Foothills 

209 

XL 

Oregon  Farm  Life    .... 

.     228 

XII. 

Along  the  Columbia 

•     243 

XIII. 

On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound 

265 

XIV. 

At  the  Edge  of  Canada 

.     286 

XV. 

The  Niagara  of  the  West 

•     3°° 

Illustrations 


At  the  Fountain — Santa  Barbara 

Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona      ......          I 

A  Guide  on  the  Bright  Angel  Trail 

5 

Descending  the  Corkscrew    .... 

ii 

In  the  Depths  of  the  Canyon 

14 

Indian  Blanket  Weaving       .... 

23 

Early  Spring        ...... 

34 

The  Launching  of  the  Ship 

37 

Crossing  at  a  Ford        ..... 

41 

A  Mexican           ...... 

48 

The  Story  Book            ..... 

52 

Among  the  Arches  of  the  Old  Mission 

54 

An  Indian  Family        ..... 

67 

On  the  Porch  at  the  Village  Store 

74 

The  Vineclad  Verandah  of  an  Old  Spanish  Hom< 

79 

The  Cliffs  of  Santa  Catalina 

85 

Comrades             ...... 

86 

Schoolgirls            ...... 

99 

Enroute  for  Death  Valley     .... 

100 

Illustrations 


Garden  Work      . 

Meditation 

The  Artist 

At  Work  in  a  Home  Yard 

The  News 

Water  for  Irrigation 

At  Work  Along  an  Irrigating  Ditch 

A  Prospector  and  His  Outfit 

The  Road  to  the  Mountains 

The  Valley  of  the  Yosemite 

The  Yosemite  Falls     . 

The  Grizzly  Giant 

Looking  from  the  Fishermen's  Wharf 

Golden  Gate     . 
A  Glimpse  of  the  Shipping 
A  Main  Thoroughfare  in  Chinatown 
The  View  across  San  Francisco  Bay  to 
A  Prospector       .... 
The  Tinker         .... 
Making  Firewood  of  the  Sagebrush 
A  Deserted  Wigwam    . 
The  White  Peaks  of  Mt.  Shasta 
The  Well  at  the  Back  Door 
Hoboes  Getting  Dinner 


towards  the 


Mt.  Tamalps 


FACING  PA.QB 

106 
III 
116 

120 

129 

133 
135 

138 

143 

146 

15* 

162 

166 
171 

174 
179 

187 

190 
196 
200 
209 
213 

216 


Illustrations 


XI 


Washing  Day 

At  the  Gate 

The  Milkmaids 

Schoolboys 

A  Hollow  Among  the  Hills 

Mending  a  Salmon  Net 

A  Salmon  Wheel 

Woodland  Blossoms 

In  a  Village  on  the  Columbia 

Mending  a  Shoe 

Starting  to  Fell  a  Giant  Cedar 

In  the  Garden 

Burning  Brush    . 

Getting  Ready  to  Plant  Potatoes 

Visiting  at  the  Gate 

A  Corduroy  Bridge 

A  Log  House 

Planting  Time 

A  Jack  Rabbit  in  Sight 

The  Niagara  of  the  West      . 

The  Ferry  Above  the  Falls 


FA.CINO  PaQB 

225 

231 
23s 

238 

242 

244 
251 

254 

261 

266 

271 

277 
280 
289 

292 

294 
298 

303 
307 
312 
321 


Introductory  Note 

The  several  volumes  in  this  series  have  as  a  rule  very 
little  to  say  of  the  large  towns.  Country  life  is  their 
chief  topic,  especially  the  typical  and  the  picturesque. 
To  the  traveller,  no  life  is  more  interesting,  and  yet 
there  is  none  with  which  it  is  so  difficult  to  get  into  close 
and  unconventional  contact.  Ordinarily,  we  catch 
only  casual  glimpses.  For  this  reason  I  have  wandered 
much  on  rural  byways  and  lodged  most  of  the  time  at 
village  hotels  or  in  rustic  homes.  My  trips  have  taken 
me  to  many  characteristic  and  famous  regions;  but 
always  in  both  text  and  pictures  I  have  tried  to  show 
actual  life  and  nature  and  to  convey  some  of  the 
pleasure  I  experienced  in  my  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  people. 

These  "Highways  and  Byways"  volumes  are  often 
consulted  by  persons  who  are  planning  pleasure  tours. 
To  make  the  books  more  helpful  for  this  purpose  each 
chapter  has  a  note  appended  containing  suggestions 
for  intending  travellers.  With  the  aid  of  these  notes, 
I  think  the  reader  can  readily  decide  what  regions  are 
likely  to  prove  particularly  worth  visiting,  and  will 
know  how  to  see  such  regions  with  the  most  comfort 
and  facility. 

Clifton  Johnson. 

Hadley,  Mass. 


^ 


Highways  and  Byways  of  the 
Pacific  Coast 


THE    GRAND    CANYON    OF    ARIZONA 

;  7  8  o  4  3 

THE    only    point    where    the   Grand    Canyon  is 
easily  accessible  to  travellers  is   at  the   Bright 
Angel  Trail,  sixty-five  miles  north  of  the  main 
line  of  the  Santa  Fe.     You  take  a  branch  road  that 
strikes  off  from  Williams  across  the  desert — a  desert  of 
red  earth  stained  with  alkali  and  supporting  a  scanty 
growth  of  sagebrush  and  moss,  stray  bits  of  grass  and 
sometimes  a  straggling  patch  of  scrub  cedar.     As  you  go 
^  Non,  the  cedars  become  more  numerous  and  larger,  and 
,    there  are  also  pines  which  gradually  multiply  until  the 
T>  country  is  pretty  uniformly  wooded,  though  the  forest 
-j    is  never  dense  nor  the  trees  of  imposing  size. 

In  this  sober  evergreen  woods,  at  the  end  of  the 
journey,  is  a  settlement,  which,  with  its  tents  and  other 
rough  structures  clustering  among  the  trees,  is  sugges- 
tive of  a  campmeeting  village.  The  only  building  that 
does  not  accord  with  this  idea  is  a  great  hotel,  supposed 


2  Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

to  be  palatial,  but  outwardly  somewhat  suggestive  of  a 
factory.  The  land  slopes  away  from  the  chasm,  and 
you  climb  a  little  hill  from  the  railway  station  till  you 
suddenly  leave  the  commonplace  forest  and  have  before 
you  the  world-famous  canyon,  thirteen  miles  here  from 
rim  to  rim  as  the  birds  fly,  and  six  thousand  feet  deep. 

The  scene  is  strange  and  impressive.  Everywhere 
the  vast  gorge  is  a  mighty  tangle  of  ravines  and  chasms 
and  sculptured  bluffs.  Then,  too,  there  is  color;  but 
that  is  secondary  to  the  vastness,  for  the  tints  are  not 
gaudy  or  startling  as  so  often  depicted.  There  is  no 
suggestion  of  a  gay  sunset.  The  strata  of  colors,  as  one 
kind  of  rock  succeeds  another,  is  in  soft  tones  of  reddish 
brown,  ochre  yellows  and  light  or  dull  grays  that  become 
delicate  purples  and  blues  in  the  shadowed  portions. 

The  day  I  arrived  was  perfectly  clear,  and  I  could  see 
to  the  farthest  recesses  of  the  intricate  furrowings  of 
the  chasm;  and  in  the  evening  the  full  moon  shone 
down  on  the  tremendous  soundless  mystery  of  the 
canyon,  here  dimly  lighting  the  grim  cliffs,  there  casting 
a  broad  gloom  of  shadow,  while  the  distance  was  gray 
and  formless,  apparently  descending  to  depths  immeas- 
urable. It  was  a  wonderful  sight,  yet  not  at  the  time 
wholly  a  pleasure;  for  the  wind  was  whistling  about  in 
fierce  gusts  that  soon  chilled  and  drove  me  indoors. 

I  was  stopping  at  one  of  the  older  and  more  rustic 
hotels  which  was  scarcely  ten  feet  from  the  verge  of  the 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  3 

gorge.  The  office  had  log  walls,  and  a  hot  fire  burned 
in  the  big  stove  in  the  center.  The  room  was  a  gather- 
ing-place for  the  guides.  They  liked  to  occupy  a  row 
of  chairs  along  the  borders  of  the  room  and  tilt  back  to 
smoke  and  talk.  Four  Navajo  Indians  wandered  in 
during  the  evening.  They  were  genuine  children  of  the 
desert,  stolid  and  serious,  and  clad  in  many-hued 
blankets  and  other  wild  trappings.  For  an  hour  they 
stood  about  the  office  counter  while  the  hotel  clerks 
examined  and  dickered  over  the  price  of  the  rings  and 
bracelets  with  which  the  persons  of  the  visitors  were 
adorned. 

Another  desert  dweller  who  warmed  himself  at  our 
fire  that  evening  was  John  Hanse,  a  gray,  vigorous  man 
who  long  years  ago  became  so  ardent  a  lover  of  the 
canyon  that  he  planted  his  home  on  its  borders  and  has 
made  the  gorge  his  life  companion.  He  said  he  was 
ninety-two  his  last  birthday,  but  you  could  always 
discount  his  statements.  He  was  a  veritable  Mun- 
chausen for  stories,  one  of  which  is  as  follows: 

"I  had  a  horse,"  said  he,  "that  was  a  great  jumper. 
Why,  he  could  jump  a  mile  without  half  tryin'.  By  and 
by  the  thought  came  to  me  that  my  horse  could  jump 
across  the  canyon,  and  I  decided  that  was  something 
worth  doing.  So  I  mounted  him  and  we  got  a  good 
start,  and  he  sailed  up  into  the  air  with  the  most  tre- 
mendous leap  that  ever  was  made.     But  when  we  were 


4  Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

most  half  way  across,  I  see  we  wouldn't  quite  make 
the  other  crest  and  I  turned  the  horse  around  and  came 
back.  We'd  pretty  near  reached  the  ground — in  fact, 
we  was  within  about  six  foot  of  it — and  I  thought  we 
was  goin'  to  land  with  such  a  thump  that  I  jumped  off 
and  let  the  horse  go  the  rest  of  the  way  alone." 

The  wind  thrashed  around  all  night,  but  quieted 
somewhat  in  the  morning,  though  still  far  from  gentle. 
The  sky  looked  threatening,  and  we  had  a  squall  of 
sleet.  Then  the  sun  glimmered  out  doubtfully,  and  I 
engaged  a  guide  to  pilot  me  down  the  seven  mile  trail. 
I  chose  to  walk,  and  he  followed  close  behind  leading  a 
saddled  mule.  Our  goal  was  the  Colorado  River,  deep  in 
the  chaos  of  adamantine  channels  and  vast  crags  on  which 
I  had  looked  from  the  rim.  You  would  hardly  suspicion 
there  was  a  chance  for  any  trail,  the  bordering  bluffs 
are  so  immense  and  so  perpendicular.  But  at  one  place 
is  a  crevice  choked  with  fragments  from  the  cliffs  and 
a  little  earth  that  has  washed  in.  Here  has  been  made 
a  slender  zigzag  path  that  crawls  gingerly  down  the 
incline,  always  turning  and  twisting  and  taking  advan- 
tage of  every  chance  to  make  the  descent  safe  and  easy. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  the  rudest  kind  of  a  highway,  and 
there  was  too  much  mud  and  too  many  loose  stones  in 
the  path  for  comfortable  walking.  In  places  a  passage 
had  been  blasted  along  the  face  of  a  cliff,  and  the 
unprotected  outer  edge  dropped  away  vertically  to 
dizzy  depths  not  at  all  agreeable  to  contemplate. 


A  guide  on  the  Bright  Angel  Trail 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  5 

My  guide's  name  was  Tom,  and  I  was  told  that  his 
last  name  had  originally  been  Catt,  but  that  this  sur- 
name had  been  changed  by  an  act  of  the  legislature, 
as  it  was  not  to  his  liking  to  pass  through  life  known 
always  as  Thomas  Catt.  He  was  a  jolly  fellow,  voluble 
and  humorous.  His  language  was,  however,  inclined  to 
the  sulphurous  and  we  were  constantly  encountering 
places  or  objects  along  the  trail  that,  according  to  his 
tell,  the  Almighty  had  had  something  to  do  with,  and 
hadn't  blessed,  either.  He  had  served  on  the  Bright 
Angel  Trail  for  years,  but  he  said  this  was  his  last 
season  there.  "I've  looked  at  the  Grand  Canyon  until 
I'm  gettin'  cross-eyed,"  he  declared. 

The  views  as  we  went  on  were  no  longer  confined  to 
the  downlook,  but  the  gigantic,  many-tinted  bluffs  and 
pyramided  masses  loomed  far  above  and  made  a  ragged 
and  ever-changing  sky-line.  The  rocks  were  often 
quite  architectural  in  appearance  and  suggested  vast 
and  solemn  cathedrals,  or  church  organs  that  would 
perhaps  break  forth  into  the  mightiest  music  the  world 
had  ever  heard. 

Tom  presently  stopped  to  light  his  pipe.  "You'll  be 
tired  by  night,"  said  he,  "if  you  walk  the  whole  distance 
down  and  back.  Still,  a  good  many  do  it.  They're 
apt  to  get  pretty  well  tuckered  though,  especially  in 
hot  weather.  Once  I  was  coming  out  of  the  canyon 
with  a  party,  and  down  below,  where  the  path  is  very 


6         Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

twisted,  at  what  we  call  Jacob's  Ladder,  a  woman  was 
settin'.  She'd  walked  to  the  river  and  was  on  her  way 
back;  but  she  said  she  couldn't  go  no  farther  nohow,  and 
unless  she  could  get  a  ride  she  was  goin'  to  die  right 
thar.  So  I  let  her  get  on  my  horse  and  I  followed  on  foot. 
Well,  sir,  when  we  got  to  the  top  and  she  was  off"  the 
horse  she  turned  to  me  and  said,  'If  I  had  any  way  of 
reporting  you  and  the  whole  outfit  that  manage  this 
trail  I  would  sure  do  it.' 

"  'What  for?'  I  asked. 

"  'Because,'  says  she,  'you  are  the  most  ignorant 
and  inconsiderate  lot  of  people  I  ever  see.  You  got  no 
business  to  have  any  such  rough  trail,  and  you  got  no 
business  to  allow  a  person  to  walk  down  it.  You 
ought  to  be  prosecuted!'  and  she  walked  off,  and  never 
even  said,  'Thank  you,'  for  the  use  of  my  horse." 

A  little  farther  on,  the  guide  pointed  to  a  slide  of 
loose  rock  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff"  we  were  edging  along, 
and  said,  "Do  you  see  that  dead  burro  down  thar? 
It  tumbled  off  here  the  other  day.  It  was  in  a  pack 
train,  and  the  kid  who  had  charge  rushed  the  burros 
up  in  a  bunch,  and  while  he  was  trying  to  straighten 
'em  out  this  one  was  crowded  off".  We  lose  an  animal 
about  every  year  that  way.  But  thar  never  has  been  a 
human  life  lost,  though  eight  or  ten  thousand  people 
go  over  the  trail  now  each  year.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  that 
some  of  the  women  haven't  come  to  grief  before  this. 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  7 

You  never  know  what  a  woman  will  do.  They're 
always  screechin'  at  you,  'Oh,  guide,  my  saddle  is 
loose!'  and,  'Oh,  guide,  I  can't  stay  on  any  longer!' 

"We  have  to  keep  jollyin'  'em  to  make  'em  forget 
what  sort  of  a  road  they're  travellin'.  You  can  manage 
'em  that  way  very  well,  but  if  a  man  gets  nervous  thar 
ain't  no  use.  You  can't  work  on  his  mind  in  any  such 
fashion,  and  he  gives  you  no  end  of  trouble.  Thar  was 
one  fellow  recently  that  another  guide  and  I  got  to 
joshing  as  we  went  down  the  trail  about  its  dangers, 
and  how  if  a  man  started  to  fall  he'd  go  quarter  of  a 
mile  without  stoppin'.  We  didn't  think  but  that  he 
was  takin'  it  all  right  when  suddenly  he  slid  ofF  his 
horse  and  said  he  wa'n't  goin'  no  farther.  We  tried  to 
reason  with  him,  but  he  was  plumb  scared  out  of  his 
senses,  and  he  struck  the  back  trail.  He  wouldn't  even 
mount  his  horse,  and  he  crawled  all  the  way  on  his 
hands  and  knees,  clinging  to  the  inner  wall.  I  reckon 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  snakes. 

"Everybody  takes  pride  in  the  trip  after  it's  over, 
especially  the  women,  no  matter  how  much  discomfort 
they've  suffered.  'Why,  I  went  way  down  thar  and 
back,  the  whole  distance,  fourteen  miles,'  a  woman 
will  say  afterward  to  her  friends,  'and  I  rode  a  mule — 
think  of  it!' 

"Yes,  the  women  consider  they've  done  a  big  thing; 
but  they're  like  an  Irishman  I  know  of  who  had  charge 


8         Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

of  a  squad  workin'  on  the  railroad.  One  morning  he 
hustled  his  men  around  and  scolded  'em  so,  they  begun 
to  conclude  something  was  the  matter.  At  last  one  of 
'em  said,  'Mike,  what  the  divil  makes  you  so  peppery 
today  ? ' 

"  'I'm  not,'  says  he. 

"  'Yes  ye  are!'  says  the  other.  'Ye  been  swearin' 
at  us  the  whole  mornin'.' 

"  'Well,  Jimmy,'  says  Mike,  'ye  know  I've  a  wife 
and  children  to  support,  and  only  these  two  hands  of 
mine  to  earn  a  living.  It's  been  none  too  aisy  in  the 
past;  and  last  night  the  ould  woman  brought  me  twins. 
Haven't  I  good  raison  for  bein'  out  of  timper?' 

"  'Ah,  Mike,'  says  Jimmy,  'ye  may  talk;  but  I'll 
guarantee  ye  wouldn't  take  tin  thousand  dollars  for 
thim  twins.' 

"  '  Perhaps  not,'  said  Mike  slowly,  thinkin'  it  over; 
'  perhaps  not,  but  I  wouldn't  give  tin  cints  for  another 
pair.' 

"That's  the  way  with  a  woman  who  goes  over  this 
trail.  One  trip  does  for  a  lifetime.  She  wouldn't  take 
ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  experience  after  it  is  over; 
but  she  wouldn't  give  ten  cents  to  repeat  it." 

Among  the  upper  cliffs  the  snow  streaks  lingered. 
However,  we  had  soon  descended  to  where  the  fresh 
leafage  of  spring  was  bursting  the  buds,  and  the  flowers 
were  in  bloom,  and  later  got  down  to  where  the  sturdy 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  9 

century  plants  flourished.  Our  surroundings  were  in 
the  main  a  rocky  wilderness,  yet  wherever  there  was  a 
slope  of  broken  fragments,  or  a  niche  or  hollow  to 
retain  a  little  sod,  some  form  of  plant  life  was  sure  to 
get  a  foothold.  Along  the  higher  portion  of  the  trail 
grew  occasional  tall,  handsome  firs;  but  most  of  the 
canyon  trees  were  dwarfed  and  twisted  cedars  and 
pines.  Rabbit  brush,  greasewood,  Mormon  tea  and 
squaw-bush  were  the  common  shrubs,  and  there  were 
thickets  of  oak  bushes,  and  numerous  clusters  of  soap- 
weed.  "You  dry  the  roots  of  that  soap-weed," 
said  Tom,  "and  then  put  them  in  water  and  they  make 
a  foam  right  off." 

He  informed  me  that  later  in  the  season,  "flowers  of 
all  kinds  known"  bloomed  in  the  canyon,  and  that  then 
there  would  be  an  "awful  lot  of  birds."  At  present, 
though  we  sometimes  heard  the  cry  of  a  blue  jay,  or 
the  cheerful  twitter  of  wrens,  the  valley  was  rather 
silent.  We  were  still  on  the  upper  portion  of  the  trail 
when  we  heard  a  pack  train  approaching  on  the  zigzag 
path  from  far  below.  Tom  gave  a  halloo  that  roused  the 
echoes  and  brought  a  response  from  the  driver  of  the 
pack  train.  We  met  him  at  length.  He  had  four 
burros  in  his  charge  moving  in  single  file  ahead  of  him, 
each  loaded  with  a  pair  of  five  gallon  cans  filled  with 
water  from  a  spring  half-way  down  to  the  river.  The 
water  was  for  the  use  of  one  of  the  hotels  at  the  summit. 


io       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

The  fellow  urged  the  beasts  on  by  a  shrill  whistling 
and  by  calling  out,  "Bobby!"  "Sandy!"  etc.,  according 
as  this  one  or  that  one  lagged. 

"Those  burros  are  foxy  creatures,"  remarked  my 
guide  as  they  went  on  up  the  trail.  "See  'em  stop  and 
look.  They'll  go  anywhere  a  goat  will.  Now  I'll 
mount  my  mule.  I  would  have  rode  before,  but  yester- 
day it  carried  a  fat  Dutchman  who  made  its  back  sore. 
He  was  so  fat  and  round  that  when  you  got  him  on 
mule-back  he  looked  just  like  a  punkin.  Do  you  see 
this  side  trail  that  branches  off  here  ?  That  goes  around 
the  bluff  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  Hogan  mine.  The 
mine  ain't  worked  now,  and  I  don't  think  it  ever  paid. 
I've  never  been  thar,  and  if  I  could  have  a  deed  of  it 
just  for  goin'  to  see  it  I  wouldn't  take  the  trouble." 

Half-way  down  we  came  to  a  comparative  level  where 
a  little  stream  wandered  among  some  green  willows, 
and  where  a  cluster  of  tents  had  been  erected  for  the 
sojourning  of  persons  who  wished  to  stay  in  the  valley 
over  night.  Here  by  the  stream  there  was,  until  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  a  colony  of  Indians.  They 
irrigated  some  of  the  surrounding  land  and  raised 
patches  of  corn,  watermelons  and  wheat.  No  doubt 
they  could  supply  practically  all  their  wants  right  in 
the  canyon  and  only  climbed  out  at  long  intervals. 
The  fact  that  they  lived  there  did  not  help  to  make  the 
place  more  accessible.     Indians  never  improve  a  trail 


Descending  the  Corkscrew 


The  Grand   Canyon  of  Arizona  1 1 

of  their  own  volition,  and  the  ravines  and  slopes  up 
which  they  climbed  continued  to  be  as  formed  by  nature. 
Far  back  in  prehistoric  times  the  cliff-dwellers  knew 
this  same  trail,  and  they  had  homes  under  the  shelving 
overlap  of  the  cliffs.  Ruins  of  their  strange  habitations 
are  still  to  be  seen  only  a  little  aside  from  the  route  to 
the  river. 

A  mile  or  two  beyond  the  half-way  camp  we  descended 
a  cliff  by  the  "corkscrew,"  where  the  path  doubles  on 
itself  in  short  turns  for  a  long  distance  and  is  alarm- 
ingly steep  and  fraught  with  direful  possibilities.  Then 
we  entered  a  narrow  gorge  bounded  by  wild  crags  of 
barren  red  granite  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  burned 
to  an  unyielding  hardness  by  subterranean  fires.  We 
followed  a  small  stream  that  coursed  down  the  hollow, 
often  crossing  it,  and  sometimes  passing  through  a 
thicket  of  willows. 

At  last  the  crags  suddenly  ended  and  we  came  out 
on  a  beach  of  clean  yellow  sand,  that  bordered  the 
river.  All  around  towered  the  cliffs,  and  the  swift 
muddy  stream  was  dwarfed  by  its  tremendous  surround- 
ings to  insignificance.  It  had  no  charm  of  size  or  color. 
Was  it  this  dirty  creek  I  had  come  down  that  seven 
miles  of  rough,  tortuous  path  to  see  ?  But  one  could 
not  gainsay  the  impressiveness  of  the  environment,  and 
it  was  a  satisfaction  to  behold  the  power  that  had  done 
the  mighty  carving. 


12       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Though  the  river  is  narrow  it  is  very  deep,  and  is  in 
reality  one  of  the  great  rivers  of  North  America.  Traced 
back  to  the  source  of  its  principal  tributary  it  is  two 
thousand  miles  long,  and  it  drains  an  enormous  amount 
of  territory.  Yet  for  the  most  part  its  course  is  in  the 
heart  of  a  region  of  arid  plains,  wild  forests  and  rugged 
mountains,  far  from  settlements  or  the  common  routes 
of  travel,  and  until  recent  years  it  has  remained  practi- 
cally unknown. 

The  first  whites  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  big  canyon 
were  the  members  of  a  Spanish  expedition  in  1540, 
but  they  failed  in  all  efforts  to  descend  into  the  chasm. 
For  three  centuries  afterward  it  was  only  seen  at 
long  intervals  by  occasional  travellers,  herdsmen  or 
trappers  who  happened  to  wander  into  the  region.  Even 
after  1850  when  surveying  parties  began  to  investigate 
portions  of  the  river,  its  course  for  the  hundreds  of  miles 
that  it  flows  in  the  depths  of  the  monstrous  chasm 
continued  to  be  a  matter  of  conjecture.  It  was  believed 
that  not  only  were  there  impassable  rapids  and  falls, 
but  that  in  places  the  stream  flowed  along  under  ground. 
Thus,  to  attempt  its  navigation  was  to  court  death. 

Yet  in  spite  of  all  this,  Major  J.  W.  Powell  in  1869 
undertook  its  exploration  by  going  down  it  with  nine 
men  and  four  boats.  He  started  on  the  Green  River  in 
Utah.  One  of  the  men  presently  left  and  returned  to 
civilization,  and  three  others,  after  holding  out  against 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  13 

the  terrors  of  the  trip  for  many  weeks,  decided  they 
would  prefer  to  encounter  the  perils  of  the  unknown 
desert.  Unfortunately,  they  fell  in  with  hostile  savages 
when  they  climbed  out  on  the  plateau,  and  they  were 
ambushed  and  killed.  Their  comrades  completed  the 
trip  with  safety,  though  after  many  capsizings  in  the 
rapids,  and  narrow  escapes  from  drowning,  and  the 
loss  of  two  boats. 

Nearly  opposite  where  I  then  was,  Major  Powell 
discovered  a  little  stream  of  clear  water  joining  the 
muddy  current  of  the  river.  Because  of  the  purity  of 
the  water  he  called  the  stream  Bright  Angel  Creek,  and 
this  name  has  been  appropriated  for  the  trail  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Colorado. 

The  canyon  began  to  be  known  to  tourists  soon  after 
the  Santa  Fe  railroad  was  completed  in  1882,  but  the 
long  rough  ride  to  get  to  the  rim,  and  the  expense  made 
the  visitors  few.  Facilities  gradually  improved,  yet 
nothing  like  crowds  came  till  1901  when  the  branch 
railroad  to  the  Bright  Angel  Trail  superseded  the  old 
stages. 

Trails  which  offer  a  descent  to  the  river  are  very  few. 
This  particular  one  was  discovered  by  the  two  Cameron 
brothers  in  1889.  They  were  prospecting  for  minerals 
and  had  a  boat  by  means  of  which  they  explored  the 
river  for  a  hundred  miles  in  this  vicinity.  One  day  they 
chanced  to  observe  the  crevice  where  the  trail  now  is 


14       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

and  followed  it  to  the  upland.  They  found  some  veins 
of  copper  near  by  that  they  hoped  might  prove  profit- 
able; but  they  also,  as  my  guide  said,  "were  a-figuring 
on  this  as  a  sight-seeing  place."  Two  years  later  they 
dug  and  blasted  a  rude  path  up  the  ravine,  and  by 
right  of  discovery  and  the  work  they  did,  they  became 
owners  of  the  property,  though  at  the  time,  to  quote  my 
guide  again,  "They  were  poor  men  and  had  come  here 
with  almost  nothin'.  They  had  no  more  than  the  butt 
end  of  a  shoestring,  you  might  say." 

Tom  and  I  presently  turned  back.  When  we  reached 
the  half-way  camp  the  western  walls  of  the  canyon 
were  obscured  by  shreds  of  showers,  and  the  sun  had 
disappeared  in  dark  and  threatening  clouds.  I  secured 
a  horse  and  rode  the  rest  of  the  journey.  A  drenching 
rain  soon  began  to  fall,  and  the  water  poured  off  my 
hat  brim,  and  the  trail  got  muddy  and  slippery.  It  was 
hard  work  for  the  creatures.  We  let  them  have  free 
rein  and  they  climbed  with  their  noses  lowered  almost 
to  the  ground.  The  landscape  in  the  mists  was  more 
imposing  than  ever.  All  the  wild  medley  of  buttressed 
cliffs  and  lonely  pinnacles  became  vague  and  evanes- 
cent. Much  of  what  would  usually  have  been  in  view 
was  hidden  altogether  or  came  and  went  with  the 
shifting  of  the  storm.  There  was  no  beginning  or  end 
to  the  world  roundabout.  The  only  solid  portion 
was  that  under  our  feet.     The  rest  was  a  mystery  of 


In  the  depths  of  the  canyon 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  15 

cloud  and  fog  and  a  dreamland  of  half-discerned 
titanic  crags.  Even  the  near  trees  were  softened  into 
an  aspect  unknown  before,  and  the  shrubbery  twinkled 
with  water  drops. 

As  we  neared  the  top  we  could  hear  a  roaring  sound 
as  of  surf  along  the  seashore.  It  was  the  wind  in  the 
trees  at  the  crest.  Now  the  rain  turned  to  snow,  and 
when  we  climbed  out  of  the  canyon  we  came  into  a 
world  of  white  with  a  wild  wind  whirling  the  flakes  and 
buffeting  the  fog  that  rose  in  weird,  baffled  masses  from 
the  yawning  valley  depths.  Our  beasts  huddled  in  the 
shelter  of  a  shed,  and  I  stiffly  dismounted  and  ran  off 
to  warm  myself  and  dry  my  wet  clothing  before  the 
hotel  fire. 

The  wind  howled  and  banged  about  without  ceasing 
through  the  night.  "Jingoes!"  commented  one  of  the 
guides  in  the  morning,  "it  tore  around  so  I  couldn't 
help  a-thinking  it  might  lift  the  old  hotel  ofF  its  base 
and  send  it  down  into  the  canyon." 

The  air  outside  was  full  of  flying  flakes  and  the  rocks 
and  trees  on  the  windward  side  were  coated  with  clinging 
snow.  The  great  gorge  was  a  vacancy  of  gray  mist, 
and  some  new  arrivals  inquired  where  the  canyon  was, 
anyway.  One  man  after  looking  down  into  the  void 
and  trying  vainly  to  penetrate  its  vapors  said,  "  I  and 
my  two  daughters  come  here  yesterday  to  see  the 
canyon,  and  the  trip  has  cost  me  a  lot  of  money.    I  must 


1 6       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

go  away  by  the  next  train  and  I  hain't  seen  a  durn  thing 
but  snow  and  fog.  I  no  business  to  have  come  at  this 
time  of  year.  March  is  a  mean  month.  It  ought  not 
to  be  allowed." 

The  weather  did  not  encourage  wandering,  and  I 
went  to  visit  a  Hopi  Indian  house  erected  not  far  from 
the  hotel  for  the  benefit  of  tourists.  It  was  a  flat-roofed, 
terraced  building  of  stone,  with  rough  ladders  set  up 
against  it  to  give  access  to  the  upper  stories.  Most  of 
the  interior  was  devoted  to  the  display  and  sale  of 
curios;  but  in  one  room  were  a  number  of  Indian 
women  squatted  on  the  floor  shaping  pottery,  and  in  a 
second  apartment  were  both  men  and  women  carding 
wool,  spinning  thread  and  weaving  blankets. 

Back  of  the  Hopi  house  were  two  Navajo  wigwams — 
dome-shaped,  with  a  stout  framework  of  heavy  sticks 
daubed  over  with  mud.  The  huts  looked  as  if  they 
attained  the  acme  of  crowded  discomfort,  but  I  was  told 
that  their  occupants  were  suited.  "There  was  a  time," 
said  my  informant,  "when  the  government  built  some 
good  frame  houses  for  the  Navajoes,  and  they  were 
much  pleased,  but  they  put  their  stock  into  the  new 
dwellings  and  continued  to  live  themselves  as  before." 

I  spent  most  of  the  day  at  a  small  two-story  hotel 
owned  by  the  Cameron  brothers,  the  discoverers  and 
owners  of  the  Bright  Angel  Trail.  We  had  an  open  fire 
of  pitch  pine,  and  it  flamed  up  vigorously  and  threw 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  17 

out  a  fine  volume  of  heat.  The  company  included 
Ralph  Cameron,  Tom  Catt  and  two  or  three  other 
guides,  and  a  German  artist  named  Wix. 

"You've  got  to  work  on  the  trail  all  the  time  in  order 
to  keep  it  in  good  shape,"  remarked  Ralph  between 
puffs  at  his  pipe.  "It'll  have  to  be  gone  over  after  this 
storm.  The  stones  slide  in  and  the  earth  washes  away. 
If  the  trail  was  neglected  for  a  year  it  would  be  impas- 
sable to  horses.  We  have  our  worst  rains  in  July — regular 
cloudbursts  with  terrific  thunder  and  lightning.  In  an 
hour,  or  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  trail  will  be  so 
gutted  that  the  expense  of  repairing  it  is  three  or  four 
hundred  dollars.  You  never  can  tell  when  the  storms 
are  coming.  I've  seen  the  weather  clear  as  a  bell,  and 
in  five  minutes  it  would  be  raining  pitchforks. 

"My  cook  has  just  told  me  he  was  going  to  quit 
tomorrow.  I  don't  know  but  I  shall  have  to  find  a 
Chinaman.  The  Chinese  make  the  best  help  in  the 
world.  They  never  try  to  be  fresh  with  you,  they're 
clean,  and  they  won't  go  off  and  leave  you  in  the  lurch. 
They  always  give  fair  warning.  There  was  a  time  when 
I  wTas  living  at  Flagstaff  that  we  ran  'em  out  of  there — 
made  'em  git.  But  we  were  sorry  for  it  afterward. 
They'd  owned  most  of  the  restaurants,  and  you  could 
get  a  good  meal  for  two  bits  (twenty-five  cents),  while 
after  they  left  prices  jumped  up  and  you  had  to  pay  six 
bits  for  the  same  food.     In  fact,  the  eating-house  people 


1 8       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

got  so  independent  a  really  good  meal  wasn't  to  be  had 
at  any  price.  There  was  such  a  lot  of  trouble  that 
finally  we  let  the  Chinese  back.  They're  the  most  indus- 
trious class  I've  ever  seen.  You  never  come  across  a 
broke  Chinaman  around  begging,  and  it's  very  seldom 
they  need  any  attention  from  the  police,  because  if 
they  have   any  rows  it's  among  themselves. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  coyotes  last  night  ?  They  were 
howling  when  I  went  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock." 

"The  wind  made  such  a  racket,"  said  I,  "that  I 
couldn't  hear  anything  else." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  could,"  declared  Tom,  the  guide. 
"The  coyotes  got  more  wind  than  the  elements.  You 
could  have  heard  them  above  the  gale  well  enough, 
and  you  can  hear  'em  at  some  time  every  night.  It's 
like  a  lot  of  kids  hollerin',  and  one  coyote  will  make  as 
much  noise  as  twenty  dogs.  They  come  to  eat  the  refuse 
the  hotels  dump  out  in  the  woods,  and  they  clean  it 
all  up,  too." 

"They're  a  cowardly  animal,"  remarked  Ralph, 
"and  they  won't  attack  anything  bigger  than  a  lamb 
unless  they  get  very  hungry.  Then  they  may  kill  a 
full-grown  sheep  if  they  get  it  separate  from  the  flock. 
They're  nothing  like  as  bad  as  the  lobo  wolves.  There's 
a  bounty  of  a  dollar  on  coyotes,  while  on  wolves  it's 
twenty  dollars.  If  a  wolf  gets  in  among  the  sheep  it 
won't  stop  short  of  killing  a  dozen  or  two.     Then  it 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  19 

stays  around  there  to  eat  'em  till  the  bodies  are  all  gone. 
It  don't  mind  the  flesh  getting  putrid.  Its  appetite 
ain't  in  the  least  delicate  and  it  cleans  up  practically 
everything.  It  even  crunches  and  makes  way  with 
nearly  all  the  bones.  So  there's  little  left  but  the  wool. 
They  ain't  numerous.  I  s'pose,  if  they  were,  President 
Roosevelt  would  come  here  and  chase  'em  out  or  kill 
'em  off." 

"Well,"  said  another  of  the  party,  "  I  hope  his  hunting 
would  have  a  little  less  of  the  show-off  in  it  than  the 
ride  he  took  from  here  to  Grand  View.  It's  sixteen 
miles,  and  he  galloped  there  in  an  hour  and  twelve 
minutes.  A  man  ought  not  to  attempt  it  over  our  roads 
in  much  less  than  twice  that  time.  He  rode  away  from 
all  his  attendants,  and  it  was  only  luck  that  he  didn't 
ruin  his  horse." 

"I  made  better  time  than  he  did  once,"  observed 
Tom,  "and  over  a  longer  distance.  I  rode  twenty-two 
miles  in  an  hour  and  a  half.  But  I  was  runnin'  away 
from  the  sheriff,  and  was  obliged  to  git  over  the  line." 

"The  speech  the  president  made  here  has  always 
struck  me  as  funny,"  said  Ralph.  "He told  us  to  save 
the  canyon  for  our  children  and  our  children's  children. 
It'll  be  here.  What  under  heaven  does  he  think  we 
were  going  to  do  with  a  gorge  thirteen  miles  across  and 
a  mile  deep — fill  it  up  ?" 


20       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"The  things  you  have  speak  of  wild  animals,"  said 
the  artist,  "remind  me  of  an  experience  in  Canada. 
I  was  tell  there  about  hunting  bears,  and  how  many 
there  be,  and  how  savage.  When  I  was  out  in  the  forest 
sketching  I  was  very  much  scare  and  think  what  I 
might  do.  If  I  do  as  I  feel,  no  tree  too  high  for  me  to 
climb  up,  and  when  I  get  to  the  top  I  would  make 
some  yells  for  papa  and  mama.  But  it  seem  to  me  that 
the  best  would  be  to  point  my  umbrella  at  the  bear 
and  open  and  shut  it  in  his  face.  He  not  know  the 
meaning  of  that  and  go  away. 

"Nothing  happen  till  one  day  just  as  I  was  finish 
sketching  and  am  packing  up  I  see  a  bear  sure  enough. 
He  was  a  little  fellow,  and  he  was  snuffle  around  to  get 
something.  He  did  not  see  me  yet,  and  I  says  to  myself, 
'  Dis  is  a  cub,  and  I  need  not  be  frighten  of  him,  but  I 
shall  have  soon  to  hurry,  or  the  whole  family  will  be 
here,  and  then  they  will  make  me  all  kind  of  trouble.' 

"So  I  grab  my  things  and  was  starting  to  run  when 
I  met  a  man.  'Get  away  from  here!'  I  say.  'Dere's 
a  bear  back  behind  me!' 

"  'Where?'  he  ask. 

"I  point  at  it. 

"'Ho!'  he  say,  'dat  is  a  porcupine;'  and  it  was,  and 
I  have  all  my  scare  for  nothing." 

"About  the  funniest  creature  we've  got  in  this  coun- 
try," said  Ralph,  "  is  the  trade  rat.    It  lives  in  the  canyon 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  21 

and  builds  its  nest  in  cracks  of  the  cliffs  out  of  sticks 
and  rubbish;  and  it  puts  cactus  thorns  and  all  sorts  of 
sharp  instruments  on  the  outside  for  a  defence.  The 
way  the  rats  get  their  name  is  that  when  they  take 
anything  of  yours  they  always  put  something  in  its 
place — a  stick  or  burr  or  whatever  comes  handy.  They 
will  take  anything  they  can  carry  whether  the  thing  is 
of  any  use  to  them  or  not.  I've  known  'em  to  steal 
knives  and  forks." 

"Yes,"  said  one  of  the  guides  whom  the  others  called 
"  Bill,"  "  I  lost  a  spoon  over  a  foot  long,  one  night;  and 
after  hunting  all  around  I  found  it  where  a  trade  rat 
had  drug  it,  two  hundred  yards  away.  Another  time 
there  was  a  feller  in  camp  with  me  who  put  down  his 
hat  when  he  got  ready  to  go  to  sleep  and  laid  his  pipe 
and  tobacco  pouch  in  it.  Next  morning  the  pipe  and 
tobacco  were  gone,  and  in  their  place  were  two  lumps 
of  dirt." 

"The  most  remarkable  thing  I  know  of,"  said  Tom, 
"is  the  different  color  of  rattlesnakes  here  in  Arizona. 
Over  in  the  Graham  Mountains  I've  seen  'em  as  black 
as  soot,  and  that's  the  only  place  I  ever  did  see  them 
right  black.  Down  in  the  canyon  they're  grayish,  and 
there's  some  places  in  the  desert  where  they're  bright 
yellow.  They  take  their  color  pretty  much  from  the 
earth  they're  in." 


22       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"There's  just  one  thing  I  like  about  rattlesnakes," 
said  Ralph.  "They  give  you  warnin'  before  they 
attempt  to  bite." 

"Unless  you  step  on  'em,"  said  Tom.  "Then  they 
don't  waste  any  time;  but  none  of  our  snakes  will  go 
out  of  their  way  to  attack  a  man." 

"There's  seldom  anyone  dies  from  a  snake  bite," 
remarked  Bill.  "Whiskey  is  the  best  remedy,  and  am- 
monia is  good,  rubbed  on  and  taken  internally.  I  tell 
you  the  most  infamous  little  snake  is  the  side-winder." 

"He  is  a  vicious  beggar,"  said  Cameron,  "and  it's 
lucky  he  is  a  desert  snake  and  small.  I've  never  seen 
one  over  eighteen  inches  long.  There's  millions  of  'em 
down  below  Yuma.  Their  tracks  are  as  thick  in  the 
sand  there  as  if  the  ground  had  been  gone  over  with  a 
rake.  When  you  get  near  one  it  moves  off  sideways 
a-watchin'  you  all  the  time." 

"Rattlesnakes  are  great  hands  to  live  in  prairie-dog 
holes,"  said  Bill,  "and  there's  often  owls  in  the  same 
holes,  too.  Them  prairie  dogs  are  a  curse  to  lots  of 
country.  Their  mounds  and  holes  are  a  nuisance  in 
the  first  place,  and  the  dogs  eat  every  green  thing 
around.  Where  there's  a  whole  town  of  them  they 
make  a  regular  waste." 

"Still  storming,"  said  Tom,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
"I  suppose  the  water  train  won't  be  comin'  up  today." 


Indian  blanket  weaving 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  23 

"No,"  responded  Ralph,  "and  I  wish  we  had  that 
spring  up  here  at  the  top." 

The  thin  surface  soil  and  underlying  porous  lime- 
stone do  not  hold  water  any  more  than  would  a  sieve, 
and  the  nearest  spring  on  the  upland  is  forty-five  miles 
distant.  Even  when  found,  the  desert  water  is  often  of 
doubtful  character.  It  may  be  tainted  with  alkali  or 
other  substances.  As  a  result  it  is  perhaps  poisonous, 
or  possibly  it  is  simply  bitter,  or  puckers  the  mouth. 

"  Poison  waters  are  usually  as  clear  and  nice  to  look 
at  as  any  you  ever  see,"  explained  Bill.  "One  time 
me  'n'  another  feller  was  goin'  'cross  country,  and  we 
got  awful  thirsty.  So  when  we  come  to  a  sparklin' 
pretty  stream — say,  we  just  lit  into  it;  but  the  water 
made  us  dreadful  sick;  and  I  been  willin'  to  leave 
alkali  waters  and  such  on  as  that  alone  since  then." 

"Have  you  seen  that  new  girl  who's  workin'  in  the 
sales  department  at  the  Hopi  house  ?"  asked  Tom. 
"Her  name  is  Mrs.  Wells,  and  she's  about  as  bright  as 
they  make  'em.  Last  week  I  thought  I'd  play  a  joke 
on  her.  I  was  takin'  a  party  there  to  show  'em  the 
Indians  and  things,  and  I  said  to  'em,  'Now  I  wish 
you'd  be  very  particular  how  you  speak  before  these 
Indians  and  not  say  anything  to  hurt  their  feelin's. 
Some  of  'em  understand  English.  Then,  too,  there's 
some  who  are  very  light  complected  so't  you  might  not 
know  they  was  Indians.     One  girl  in  particular  I  want 


24       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

you  to  notice.  She  waits  on  customers,  and  she's  lighter 
complected  than  most  white  folks,  but  she's  a  full- 
blooded  Hopi  squaw.' 

"'Ah!'  they  said,  'is  that  so?      How  remarkable!' 

"We  went  in  and  Mrs.  Wells  came  forward  with  her 
head  cocked  up  and  all  smiles  and  says,  '  How  do  you 
do,'  to  my  party  in  her  finest  manner;  and  one  whis- 
pered to  another,  'Ain't  it  strange  ?  I  would  never  have 
believed  that  she  was  a  squaw.' 

"But  she  overheard,  and  she  knew  I'd  been  playin' 
a  trick,  and  she  looked  fierce  at  me.  However,  she 
never  let  on  to  the  visitors,  and  pretty  soon  one  of  them 
said  to  her,  '  Is  it  really  true  that  you  are  a  squaw  ?' 

"  'Certainly  I  am,'  she  replied.  'I  don't  deny  my 
nationality.' 

"  'And  can  you  talk  the  language  ?'  the  other  asked. 

"  'Skee-dee,  skee-dee!'  she  says,  and  they  kept 
watchin'  her  the  whole  time  and  come  away  believin' 
that  she  was  a  white  squaw." 

I  saw  this  lady  myself,  later  in  the  day.  She  was 
mentioning  to  some  crony  that  her  "father's  father  was 
the  darndest  old  toper  that  ever  was.  He  was  a  South- 
ern man,"  she  added,  "and  it  was  the  fashion  to  drink 
then.  Besides,  his  home  was  in  a  region  near  the 
Tennessee  Mountains  that  was  full  of  blind  pigs — illicit 
distilleries,  you  know.  Say,  you  ought  to  travel  in  those 
mountains.     It  beats  all,  the  way  they  live  there.     Mr. 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  25 

Wells  and  I  took  a  trip  into  them  soon  after  we  was 
married,  and  toward  dark  one  day  we  come  to  the  only 
house  we'd  seen  for  a  long  distance.  It  didn't  look 
very  inviting,  but  it  seemed  like  our  last  chance  and  we 
asked  if  we  could  get  lodging.  The  mountain  people 
are  very  hospitable,  and  they  made  us  welcome,  though 
the  house  was  a  one-room  log  cabin,  and  the  man  had 
ten  children.  There  was  only  a  single  bed,  and  we 
wondered  how  they'd  manage.  After  supper  they  put 
the  youngest  children  into  the  bed,  and  when  they  were 
sound  asleep  they  lifted  them  out  and  laid  them  down 
in  a  corner.  Then  the  next  older  children  got  into  bed 
and  were  disposed  of  in  the  same  manner.  Finally 
the  last  of  the  ten  had  been  transferred  to  the  floor, 
and  we  were  told  we  might  have  the  bed.  Pretty  soon 
we  were  asleep,  and  we  never  woke  up  till  the  next 
morning.  Then  to  our  surprise,  we  found  ourselves 
on  the  floor  with  the  kids,  and  the  man  and  his  wife 
were  in  the  bed." 

When  I  left  the  Hopi  house  I  found  that  the  storm 
showed  signs  of  breaking,  and  gleams  of  sunshine  and 
scuds  of  sleet  and  rain  alternated.  These  changes 
were  not  such  as  to  stir  one  especially,  when  viewed  in 
the  sober  woodland  at  the  crest  of  the  canyon;  but 
looking  into  the  gorge  with  its  valleys  within  valleys 
and  its  heights  piled  on  heights  they  worked  miracles. 
I  doubt  if  anywhere  else  on  the  globe  could  be  witnessed 


26       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

so  astonishing  a  play  of  light  and  shade.  The  moun- 
tains of  the  chasm  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  a  game  of 
hide  and  seek  in  the  mists,  now  peering  forth,  now 
disappearing  in  the  darkling  shadows.  The  light  con- 
stantly varied;  sometimes  dim  and  tender;  sometimes 
clear,  gleaming  on  the  many-tinted  crags  with  marvelous 
purity,  and  glancing  along  from  buttress  to  buttress, 
yet  always  drifting  on  and  shifting  to  new  shapes  and 
making  fresh  combinations.  Presently  there  appeared 
a  rainbow  glorifying  one  of  the  retreating  showers,  and 
it  was  so  vivid  it  glowed  as  if  it  were  of  fire  and  not  a 
mere  reflection.  The  shower  moved  ofF,  the  rainbow 
faded,  the  sunlight  shimmered  over  the  nearer  portion 
of  the  valley  while  the  farther  recesses  of  the  great 
chasm  reposed  in  a  blue  gloom  under  the  cloud  shadows. 
It  was  a  wondrous  vision. 

On  my  last  evening  at  the  Grand  Canyon  there  was 
a  raffle.  A  young  half-breed  guide,  whom  the  others 
knew  as  "Jess  Bearclaws"  was  going  away,  and  he 
wanted  to  turn  his  silver-mounted  saddle  into  money. 
It  had  cost  him  forty-five  dollars,  but  he  was  willing 
to  dispose  of  it  for  thirty,  and  for  a  day  or  two  had  been 
wandering  around  with  a  paper  getting  signers  for 
fifteen  chances  at  two  dollars  a  chance.  The  guides, 
drivers  and  clerks  were  mostly  quite  ready  to  help  him 
out,  though  one  clerk  refused  on  the  ground  that  he 
had  no  more  use  for  a  saddle  than  for  a  balloon.    Now 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  27 

the  chances  were  all  sold  and  the  time  had  come  to 
determine  who  was  to  win  the  prize.  The  investors 
with  a  few  exceptions  were  on  hand  early  and  paid 
their  dues  and  chaffed  and  chewed  and  smoked  and 
discussed  the  raffle  with  great  seriousness.  Meanwhile 
the  absentees  were  sent  for  and  someone  went  to  hunt 
up  three  dice. 

"I  take  a  chance  on  everything  that  comes  along," 
said  a  bleary-looking  fellow  known  as  "Yellowstone 
Jack."  "It's  only  a  dollar  or  two,  and  what  does  that 
matter  ?" 

Presently  Jess  Bearclaws  accosted  a  tall  chap  named 
Buckland  and  said,  "  I  bet  you  five  dollars  I've  got  more 
money  in  my  pocket  than  you  have." 

Everyone  was  aghast,  for  Buckland  was  a  nabob 
among  his  fellows  and  reputed  to  be  worth  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars. 

"I  take  that  bet,"  said  he. 

"Well,"  said  Jess,  "you  ain't  got  any  money  in  my 
pocket,  have  you  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  had,"  retorted  Buckland,  and  then 
followed  a  long  discussion  as  to  what  that  ambiguous 
bet  of  the  half-breed  amounted  to. 

My  guide  Tom  came  in  late,  paid  his  two  dollars, 
and  remarked,  "Now  I'm  happy — for  I'm  just  as  free 
of  money  as  a  fish  is  of  feathers." 


28       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Presently  the  gang  adjourned  to  an  inner  room,  and 
when  they  reappeared  Buckland  had  won  the  saddle. 
"I  knew  he  would!"  exclaimed  Tom.  "There  never 
was  such  a  fellow  for  luck.  He  could  go  down  and  fall 
in  the  Colorado  River  and  come  out  with  his  pockets 
full  of  trout." 

Everybody  laughed,  and  the  joke  was  appreciated 
the  more  because  there  are  no  trout  in  the  river. 

Note. — It  is  possible  to  see  the  Grand  Canyon  by  a  two  days' 
interruption  of  one's  journey  east  or  west,  and  to  get  in  those  two  days 
fairly  satisfactory  and  varied  impressions;  but  a  week  would  be  better. 
If  you  plan  to  do  much  tramping  your  shoes  should  be  stout  and 
thick-soled.  Ladies  will  find  short  walking  skirts  a  convenience. 
Divided  skirts  are  preferable  for  the  horseback  journey  down  the 
trail,  and  in  summer  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  is  a  comfort.  Both 
of  these  articles  can  be  rented  at  the  hotels.  A  vigorous  person, 
accustomed  to  rough  walking  can  descend  to  the  river  and  return  on 
foot,  but  for  most  a  horse  is  a  necessity,  especially  for  the  upward  climb. 

There  are  several  outjutting  points  within  easy  riding  or  walking 
distance  of  the  Bright  Angel  Trail  that  are  well  worth  visiting  for 
the  views  they  afford.  One  of  the  longer  jaunts  is  eight  miles  west  to 
the  Boucher  Trail,  and  another  is  thirteen  miles  east  to  Grand  View 
Trail.  Each  of  these  descents  into  the  chasm  has  features  peculiar 
to  itself.  At  the  latter  is  a  good  hotel,  and  the  panoramic  views  from 
the  vicinity,  and  the  variety  of  short  trips  that  are  possible  from  here 
make  it  exceptionally  attractive.  Among  other  things  there  is  a  chance 
to  visit  a  pueblo  village  of  the  Hopi  Indians. 

The  railroad  furnishes  the  easiest  and  quickest  way  of  getting  to 
the  Canyon,  but  some  tourists  prefer  to  go  across  the  mesas  and 
through  the  pine  forests  by  wagon  from   Flagstaff.     This  makes  a 


The  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona  29 

two  days'  trip  of  seventy-five  miles.  The  road  is  good  except  in  winter. 
Near  Flagstaff  is  the  noted  Lowell  Observatory;  and  within  a  few 
miles  is  Walnut  Canyon  where  are  scores  of  quaint  cliff-dwellings, 
the  most  famous  group  of  the  kind  in  the  region.  In  another  direction, 
nine  miles  from  the  town,  some  of  the  ruins  of  the  cave-dwellers  may 
be  seen  on  the  summit  of  an  extinct  volcano.  The  magnificent  San 
Francisco  Peaks  are  just  north  of  Flagstaff,  and  a  road  has  been 
constructed  up  Humphrey's  Peak,  the  summit  of  which  is  12,750  feet 
above  the  sea  level. 

On  my  way  across  Arizona  an  old  lady  who  sat  in  the  next  seat 
ahead  remarked  to  her  companion,  "I  think  we  must  be  somewhere 
near  that  putrified  forest  I've  heard  tell  about." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  and  pointed  at  some  bare,  ragged- 
sloped  mesas  we  were  passing.  "Seems  to  me,"  said  she,  "these  hills 
look  kind  o'  putrified — yes,  the  rocks  certainly  do  look  just  like 
putrified   mud." 

She  had  not  quite  hit  the  word  she  wanted,  and  her  geographical 
ideas  were  somewhat  hazy;  but  a  petrified  forest  covering  thousands 
of  acres  is  one  of  the  wonderful  features  of  Arizona.  This  is  most 
readily  reached  from  Adama,  and  one  portion  of  the  forest  is  only 
six  miles  distant.  Here  is  the  notable  natural  log  bridge,  and  the 
ground  is  carpeted  with  agate  chips,  and  strewn  with  sections  of  agate 
trunks  from  two  to  four  feet  in  diameter. 


II 

ON   THE    BORDERS    OF    MEXICO 

WHAT  I  saw  of  Arizona  and  Eastern  California 
as   I   sped  across  them  on  the  journey  to  the 
coast  was  for  the  most  part  barren,  parched 
and  forlorn  to  the  last  degree.     As  one  of  my  fellow 
tourists  remarked,  "I  don't  see  what  all  this  land  is 
good  for  except  to  hold  the  world  together." 

But  suddenly  the  desert  was  left  behind  and  we  were 
amid  blossoming  gardens  and  green,  luscious  fields, 
and  orange  orchards  with  their  dark,  vigorous  foliage 
all  a-twinkle  with  golden  globes.  What  a  land  of 
enchantment  it  did  seem  after  those  long  days  on  the 
train  hastening  over  the  frosty  and  arid  plains,  and  how 
the  fresh  full-leaved  greenery  did  delight  one's  heart! 
All  things  were  growing  and  flourishing,  the  weeds 
were  getting  rank,  the  wildflowers  were  in  bloom,  and 
everywhere  in  home  yards  were  callas  and  other  hot- 
house and  summer  flowers  in  prodigal  profusion. 

To  get  as  near  the  tropics  on  our  west  coast  as  possible 
I  journeyed  to  San  Diego,  and  on  the  way  thither  I 

30 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  31 

had  my  first  sight  of  the  Pacific  rolling  its  thunderous 
surf  up  on  the  beach  and  dimpling  softly  under  the 
half  clouded  sky  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  At 
San  Diego  I  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  it,  and  spent 
much  of  the  first  day  rambling  along  the  waterside. 
I  lingered  longest  in  the  section  where  the  fishermen 
dwell.  Their  little  cottages  are  many  of  them  on  piles 
and  are  over  the  water  at  high  tide.  This  has  its 
advantages,  but  there  had  been  a  storm  the  previous 
Sunday  which  made  the  pile-dwellers  wish  their  homes 
were  on  the  firm  ground.  It  was  as  wild  a  gale  as  even 
the  oldest  inhabitant  could  remember,  and  the  wind 
rose  till  the  spray  flew  over  the  cottage  platforms  and 
wet  the  floors  inside.  To  make  matters  worse  the 
little  rowboats  and  the  fishing  craft  and  some  heavy 
timbers  got  away  from  their  moorings  in  the  harbor 
and  butted  into  the  supporting  piles  of  the  dwellings. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  one  lady,  "it  blowed  so  hard  it 
done  quite  a  good  deal  of  damage.  You  see  our  garden 
out  in  front  here.  Everythin'  in  it  was  gettin'  to  look 
real  nice;  and  now  notice  that  yaller  blossoming  willow 
bush.  It  was  crowded  full  o'  flowers,  but  the  storm 
just  nacherly  pretty  near  broke  it  down." 

"We  was  lucky,"  said  her  husband,  "that  we  didn't 
get  into  no  badder  troubles.  Some  houses  was  let 
down  into  the  water  and  knocked  all  to  pieces.  Our 
house  come  near  goin\    It  had  only  two  piles  left  under 


32       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

the  middle;  and  it  got  twisted  so  the  door  wouldn't 
open,  while  we  was  still  inside.  We  begun  to  think  we'd 
be  drown,  and  I  took  a  hatchet  and  pried  off"  a  window- 
casing.  I'd  'a'  knock  the  whole  darn  lights  out  rather 
than  stay  in  there  any  longer.  When  we  escaped  I 
tried  to  save  some  boats  that  jammed  in  here  next  us. 
But  when  I  had  one  partly  pulled  out  a  big  wave  piled 
twenty  or  thirty  more  on  top,  and  I  give  up.  After  the 
storm  I  saved  some  broken  pieces  so  I  got  a  little  of 
my  damage  back.  I  have  sold  part  of  them  and  they 
will  furnish  me  tobacco  money  to  last  a  while,  anyway. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  it's  goin'  to  rain  again,"  he  remarked  as 
we  were  about  to  part.  "  I  have  a  crooked  toe  that  was 
shot  in  the  Civil  War,  and  that  pains  me  every  time  the 
weather's  turnin'  bad.  It  never  ain't  failed  me  yet, 
and  I  feel  a  storm  is  comin'  now." 

I  was  still  wandering  about  exploring  the  town  when 
I  was  accosted  by  a  bareheaded,  swarthy  gypsy  woman 
who  wanted  to  tell  my  fortune.  The  charge  was  two 
bits,  she  said,  and  I  produced  the  money.  Then  she 
made  a  poor  pretense  of  glancing  at  the  lines  of  my 
hand  and  mumbled  a  sing-song  repetition  with  slight 
variations  about  my  having  had  much  trouble,  assert- 
ing in  conclusion  that,  "You  have  make  considerable 
money,   but  you  spend   it  easy." 

She  hit  it  right  about  the  spending  so  far  as  the 
quarter  I  had  just  parted  with  was  concerned.    Next  she 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  33 

pulled  a  couple  of  little  threads  out  of  the  fringe  of  her 
shawl,  and  had  me  tie  two  knots  in  one  of  them  and 
repeat  after  her,  "Go  way  trouble."  "Go  way  my 
bad  luck." 

That  done  she  crumpled  up  the  knotted  string,  slyly 
substituted  the  other,  which  she  had  kept  concealed, 
and  told  me  to  pull  it  out — when  lo!  the  knots  were 
gone.  Lastly  she  gave  this  thread  a  twist  about  one  of 
my  buttons  and  affirmed  that  if  I  didn't  "tell  nobody 
about  it  for  eight  days"  I  probably  wouldn't  have  "no 
more  trouble  and  bad  luck."  To  make  the  thing 
certain,  however,  she  wanted  another  quarter. 

San  Diego  appealed  to  me  most  forcibly  in  the  sug- 
gestions one  caught  everywhere  that  the  place  never 
experienced  our  savage  Eastern  winter.  Yet  there  were 
chilly  mornings  and  days  of  wind  or  rain,  when  a  fire 
was  a  comfort.  Otherwise  everything  conspired  to 
make  one  feel  it  was  early  summer  instead  of  March. 

One  morning  I  visited  Old  Town,  an  outlying 
suburb,  which  in  the  early  days  constituted  all  there 
was  of  San  Diego.  At  that  time  the  site  of  the  present 
city  was  a  sheep  pasture.  The  parent  village  is  pretty 
dead  now,  and  many  of  the  ancient  adobe  structures 
are  in  ruins,  but  others  are  still  intact  and  occupied. 
Such  structures  are  particularly  interesting,  because 
their  massiveness  gives  them  an  air  of  repose  and  per- 
manence,  and   because  they   are  characteristic  of  the 


34       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

common  method  of  building  in  the  days  when  California 
was  a  part  of  Mexico.  The  material  employed  is  a 
very  sticky,  dark  brown  clay  fashioned  into  blocks 
about  four  times  the  size  of  an  ordinary  brick.  Some- 
times straw  cut  up  into  pieces  an  inch  or  two  long  was 
worked  into  the  clay  mud.  Wet  clay  was  used  as  mortar 
when  the  blocks  were  laid.  The  timbers  of  the  floors, 
doorways  and  windows  were  built  in  as  the  walls  were 
in  process  of  erection. 

Eight  miles  from  Old  Town,  up  a  neighboring  valley, 
is  the  remains  of  an  ancient  Spanish  Mission  which  I 
decided  to  see.  The  valley  is  wide,  and  its  basin  is 
mostly  cultivated.  Much  of  it  was  growing  to  barley, 
oats  and  other  grains,  then  knee  high,  and  there  was 
Indian  corn  well  started,  and  melons  just  coming  up, 
and  an  abundance  of  garden  truck  of  all  sorts  ready 
for  market.  The  finest  tract  was  farmed  by  a  China- 
man. He  had  many  acres  as  level  as  a  floor  and  his 
crops  were  thriving  admirably;  but  his  home  buildings 
were  dilapidated,  and  even  the  house  a  mere  shack. 
The  litter  of  work  and  carelessness  was  dubiously 
evident  all  about,  and  the  premises  were  so  odorous  that 
it  was  no  joke  to  get  to  leeward  of  them. 

Judging  from  the  Chinaman's  success,  I  imagined  he 
would  have  rather  a  rosy  opinion  of  the  region,  but 
some  of  the  other  dwellers  in  the  valley  were  decidedly 
pessimistic.    "California  is  overrated,"  said  one  of  them 


Early  spring 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  35 

to  me.  "  Every  farm  in  the  state  is  for  sale.  You  need 
money  to  enjoy  this  country,  and  it  takes  a  good  big 
purseful  to  run  a  farm  and  get  it  into  shape  to  be 
profitable.  A  poor  man,  or  a  man  of  moderate  means 
has  no  chance.  He  travels  up  hill  all  the  time  and  often 
in  the  end  has  to  sell  out  for  a  song.  Lots  of  people 
have  an  idea  there's  money  in  fruit,  but  I've  noticed 
our  fruit  growers  usually  make  a  profit  one  season  and 
lose  the  next  nine." 

The  man  did  not  appear  very  energetic,  and  his  land 
did  not  look  as  if  he  worked  it  with  much  vigor  or 
judgment.  No  doubt  he  painted  the  country  in  tints 
out  of  his  own  experience.  Another  man  I  talked  with 
was  a  grizzled  old  fellow  of  a  different  type.  He  was 
carrying  a  post  on  his  shoulder,  and  when  I  accosted 
him  he  dropped  the  butt  end  to  the  ground.  Every 
few  minutes  he  shifted  the  post  up  to  his  shoulder  as 
if  about  to  go  on,  but  the  conversation  would  take  a 
fresh  start  and  down  would  go  the  post  once  more. 
He  did  not  agree  with  the  neighbor  whom  I  have  quoted. 
"Oh,  no,"  said  he,  "not  every  place  is  for  sale.  The 
majority  are,  but  there's  exceptions.  I  wouldn't  sell 
mine — leastways,  not  unless  I  got  a  good  big  price  for  it. 

"I  was  over  in  Arizona  lately,"  he  continued,  "and 
on  the  train  that  brought  me  back  I  had  a  talk  with 
a  Missouri  man,  who  was  comin'  to  the  coast  to  settle 
with  his  whole  family;    and  he  said,  'My  little  girl  has 


36       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

been  thinkin'  they  have  gold  houses  out  in  California 
and  gold  sidewalks  and  gold  everything.  She  says  she 
reckons  they  have  gold  taters  to  eat.' 

"  It's  a  good  deal  the  same  with  the  older  folks.  They 
are  often  disappointed  simply  because  they  have  un- 
reasonable expectations.  Yes,  that's  just  it,  and  they've 
got  a  lot  to  learn.  It  ain't  no  soft  job  here.  There's 
plenty  to  do  all  the  time,  and  if  you  want  to  succeed 
you  haven't  hardly  got  time  to  talk  to  anyone.  Even 
an  industrious  man  don't  find  it  all  straight  sailin.' 
This  region  is  naturally  kind  of  a  desert.  Just  now  for 
a  few  years  we're  havin'  rain,  and  everythin'  is  green 
and  flourishin'.  You  couldn't  have  better  pasturage, 
and  we  don't  have  to  feed  our  stock  anything  in  addi- 
tion to  what  they  pick  up  themselves,  the  year  through. 
But  before  this  wet  spell  there  was  eleven  years  we  only 
had  one  good  rain.  The  streams  went  dry,  the  wells 
went  dry,  and  the  feed  all  shrivelled  up  in  the  pastures. 
Why,  we  had  to  give  the  stock  cactus  to  eat.  We'd  make 
a  quick  brush  fire  and  take  the  cactus  and  singe  off 
the  thorns,  and  that  singed  cactus  was  what  the  cattle 
lived  on.  I  sold  most  of  my  cows  at  ten  dollars  apiece 
the  feed  got  so  scanty. 

"Another  thing  we've  found  out  is  that  we  can't 
raise  fruit  in  this  neighborhood.  The  trees  will  do 
well  for  three  or  four  years;  but  see  here,"  and  with 
his  post  he  thumped  some  clay  laid  bare  in  a  washed-out 


The  launching  of  the  ship 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  37 

gully,  "  under  the  surface  soil  a  foot  or  two  is  this  old 
adobe,  and  it's  got  alkali  in  it.  That's  the  boy  that 
ruins  the  fruit  trees.  The  roots,  as  soon  as  they  strike 
it,  crumple  up,  and  your  trees  begin  to  croak  and  don't 
flourish  any  more. 

"  But  the  situation  is  like  this — a  man  who  comes  here 
and  works  hard  and  uses  some  common  sense  and 
adapts  himself  to  the  country  will  prosper.  One  day  I 
was  callin'  on  a  genoowine  old  Dutchman  who  is  livin' 
a  few  miles  away.  'Veil,'  he  says,  'dis  desert  does 
look  fine  when  it  rains.' 

"He's  got  about  sixteen  children,  and  you  might 
think  he'd  have  trouble  supportin'  'em.  I  mentioned 
something  of  the  sort,  but  he  replied,  'I  make  a  living 
here,'  and  he  gave  a  big  wink  and  then  said,  'and  I 
makit  one  dollar  besides.' 

"So  can  other  people." 

It  was  a  half-clouded  morning,  and  the  weather  was 
reminiscent  of  a  sultry  day  in  June  at  home.  The 
heat  was  full  of  moist,  growing  power,  and  the  pastures 
and  waysides  were  besprinkled  with  blossoms  of  every 
hue.  Poppies,  thistles  and  morning-glories  were  easily 
recognized,  but  most  of  the  blossoms  were  unfamiliar, 
and  they  made  a  pageant  of  color  such  as  the  East 
never  witnesses.  One's  ears  were  greeted  with  the  buzz 
of  flies,  the  chirrup  of  insects,  and  by  the  croaking  of 
frogs  on  the  sodden   lowlands.     The  walk  was   quite 


38       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

delightful,  though  not  wholly  so;  for  some  little  gnats 
darted  about  my  face  very  persistently.  The  road  I 
followed  was  not  a  public  way,  and  it  was  frequently 
interrupted  by  gates  that  I  had  to  climb  over  or  open, 
and  its  markings  became  less  and  less  distinct  till  I 
lost  them  altogether.  I  was  then  in  a  cultivated  patch 
of  olive  trees,  and  many  of  the  trees  were  loaded  with 
fruit,  both  green  and  ripe.  The  ripe  olives  looked  very 
like  plums,  and  their  appearance  was  so  inviting  I 
tried  one;  but  it  came  out  of  my  mouth  much  quicker 
than  it  went  in. 

I  wandered  across  several  fields  till  I  found  my  road 
again,  and  at  last  I  reached  the  old  Mission  on  a  terrace 
of  a  steep  hillslope.  Much  of  the  original  buildings 
is  gone.  They  were  used  as  a  cavalry  barracks  in  the 
war  of  1846  and  later  as  a  sheep  fold,  and  such  use, 
added  to  neglect,  has  left  only  remnants;  but  enough 
still  existed  of  the  stout  adobe  walls  to  be  impressive. 
It  overlooked  the  peaceful,  fertile  valley.  Near  by,  at 
the  foot  of  the  slope,  was  a  grove  of  ancient  olives 
musical  with  great  numbers  of  birds,  and  on  the  borders 
of  the  grove  was  a  fragment  of  cactus  hedge  and  a  few 
date  palms,  all  that  remains  of  the  friars'  garden. 

This  is  the  oldest  of  the  California  Missions.  It  was 
founded  in  1769,  but  the  ruins  do  not  date  back  to  its 
beginnings;     for    in    its    sixth    year    the    Mission    was 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  39 

attacked   by   hostile   Indians,   one   of  the   padres   was 
killed  and  the  buildings  burned  to  the  ground. 

By  the  end  of  the  century  there  were  seventeen  more 
Missions,  and  three  others  followed  later.  It  was  their 
purpose  to  instruct  and  civilize  the  Indians.  The 
founding  of  a  Mission  was  very  simple.  After  a  suitable 
place  had  been  selected  in  a  fertile  valley  a  cross  was 
set  up,  a  booth  of  branches  built,  and  the  ground  and 
the  booth  were  consecrated  by  holy  water  and  chris- 
tened in  the  name  of  a  saint.  If  there  were  Indians  in 
the  vicinity  they  were  attracted  to  the  spot  by  the 
ringing  of  bells  swung  on  the  limbs  of  trees,  and  presents 
of  food,  cloth  and  trinkets  were  given  them  to  win 
their  confidence.  Each  new  Mission  had  at  first  only 
two  monks.  The  booth  and  cross  were  in  their  charge, 
and  they  were  to  convert  and  teach  all  the  Indians  of 
the  neighborhood.  Several  soldiers  and  perhaps  a  few 
partly  Christianized  Indians  served  as  a  guard  and 
helpers.  The  community  would  have  a  number  of 
head  of  cattle  and  some  tools  and  seeds,  and  with  this 
humble  equipment  those  in  charge  were  expected  to 
conquer  the  wilderness  and  its  savage  inhabitants. 

As  a  rule  the  Indians  were  of  low  intelligence  and 
brutish  habits;  but  they  were  taught  to  cultivate  the 
earth  and  to  do  a  variety  of  mechanical  work.  They 
felled  timber,  transported  it  to  the  Mission  sites,  and 
used  it,  together  with  adobe  and  tiles,  in  erecting  the 


40       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

churches  and  other  buildings.  Thus  in  time  rose  the 
pillars,  arched  corridors  and  domes  of  the  stately 
structures  that  are  still  impressive  even  in  their  ruins. 
Gradually  a  village  grew  about  each  church;  for  the 
Indians  were  encouraged  to  live  near  by,  and  some  of 
the  Mission  communities  numbered  thousands. 

The  chief  structure  at  a  Mission  was  usually  in  the 
shape  of  a  hollow  square  with  a  front  of  four  or  five 
hundred  feet  along  which  extended  a  gallery.  The 
church  formed  one  of  the  wings,  and  in  the  interior  was 
a  court  adorned  with  trees  and  a  fountain.  Round  about 
was  a  corridor  whence  doors  opened  into  the  friars' 
sleeping  apartments,  workshops,  storehouses,  school- 
rooms, etc.  At  sunrise  a  bell  was  rung  and  the  Indians 
assembled  in  the  chapel  for  prayers.  Afterward  they 
had  breakfast  and  were  distributed  to  their  work. 
At  eleven  they  ate  dinner,  and  work  was  resumed  at 
two.  An  hour  before  sunset  the  Angelus  bell  was  tolled 
and  labor  was  abandoned  for  religious  exercises  in  the 
chapel.  Supper  followed,  and  then  the  Indians  were 
free  to  take  part  in  a  dance  or  other  mild  amusements. 

The  rule  of  the  friars  was  in  the  main  just  and 
kindly.  Drunkenness  was  punished  by  flogging,  and 
the  offenders  in  quarrels  between  husbands  and  wives 
were  chained  together  by  the  legs  till  they  promised  to 
keep  the  peace.  Fresh  recruits  were  secured  by  sending 
out   parties   of  Indians    already   attached   to   the   new 


<o 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  41 

mode  of  life  and  letting  them  set  forth  to  the  savages  its 
advantages,  though  it  is  said  they  were  also  sometimes 
captured  by  main  force.  The  domestic  animals  im- 
ported for  the  use  of  the  Missions  multiplied  with 
great  rapidity,  and  in  the  care  of  them  the  Indians 
became  very  dexterous.  Hides,  tallow,  grain,  wine 
and  oil  were  sold  to  ships  visiting  the  coast,  and  from 
the  proceeds  the  friars  supplied  the  Indians  with 
clothing,  tobacco  and  such  other  things  as  appealed  to 
the  taste  or  fancy  of  the  savage  converts.  Surplus 
profits  were  employed  in  embellishing  the  churches. 

The  Missions  were  established  at  about  a  day's 
journey  apart  on  the  natural  route  of  travel  along  the 
coast,  and  they  were  the  usual  stopping-places  for 
travellers.  Whenever  one  of  these  sojourner  ATjkfc&ilE 
he  was  welcomed  with  the  hospitality  of  the  Bible 
patriarchs.  First  of  all  his  horse  was  led  away  to  the 
stables,  and  the  man  was  escorted  to  a  bath.  After- 
ward he  was  given  a  plentiful  meal  and  a  comfortable 
bed,  and  he  was  at  liberty  to  stay  as  long  as  he  chose. 

The  maximum  of  Mission  prosperity  was  attained 
in  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The 
friars  and  their  neophytes  owned  countless  herds  of 
cattle,  horses,  sheep,  goats  and  swine,  and  produced 
from  the  ground  all  their  simple  needs  required.  At 
each  Mission  were  inclosed  gardens  and  orchards  where 
grew  a  considerable  variety  of  vegetables   and   many 


42       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

fruits,  including  figs,  oranges,  olives  and  grapes.  But 
white  settlers  were  increasing,  and  contact  with  them 
tended  to  corrupt  the  Indians  and  to  make  them  less 
easily  controlled.  The  greed  of  the  newcomers  was 
aroused  by  the  wealth  of  the  Missions  in  land  and  herds, 
and  in  1833  they  influenced  the  Mexican  congress  to 
pass  a  law  secularizing  the  Missions  and  turning  over 
their  property  to  public  purposes,  except  for  some 
small  allowances  reserved  to  maintain  the  churches. 
This  enabled  the  politicians  of  the  period  to  plunder 
the  Missions  very  thoroughly,  and  the  administrators 
who  were  appointed  wasted  no  time  in  getting  the 
tangible  property  into  the  hands  of  themselves  and  their 
friends. 

So  serious  was  the  desolation  wrought,  and  so  evil 
were  the  effects  on  the  Indians  that  the  law  was  re- 
scinded, but  the  mischief  had  been  done,  and  the 
Missions  were  not  able  to  recuperate.  The  ruin  was 
completed  by  the  American  conquest,  and  the  few  re- 
maining Indians  were  driven  or  enticed  away.  That 
they  and  their  ancestors  had  been  cultivating  the  lands 
for  three-quarters  of  a  century  made  no  difference.  The 
Americans  wishing  to  pre-empt  claims  did  not  regard 
the  presence  of  Indian  families  or  communities  as  any 
more  a  deterrent  than  they  would  have  so  many  coyotes. 
What  cared  the  rude  frontiersmen  for  missionary  friars 
or  civilized  Indians  ?     They  came  to  squat  on  public 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  43 

lands,  and  they  not  only  took  such  tracts  as  pleased 
their  fancy,  but  in  some  cases  the  Mission  structures 
were  demolished  for  the  sake  of  the  timber,  tiles  and 
other  building  materials  that  were  in  them. 

Every  visitor  at  San  Diego  makes  a  trip  to  the  village 
of  Tia  Juana,  just  across  the  line  in  Mexico.  The  idea 
is  cultivated  that  by  so  doing  one  will  get  a  brand  new 
impression  and  that  he  will  see  a  bit  of  Mexico  which  will 
serve  as  a  fair  sample  of  the  whole.  It  is  sixteen  miles 
down  to  the  line,  and  a  train  takes  you  that  far.  Close 
by  the  terminus  is  a  boundary  monument,  and  some 
people  find  pleasure  in  standing  with  one  foot  in  their 
own  country  and  one  in  foreign  territory.  Often  they 
have  themselves  photographed  in  that  position.  But 
the  person  who  wants  to  make  all  he  can  out  of  the 
situation  jumps  back  and  forth  across  the  line  until  he 
is  tired.  Then,  when  he  reaches  home  and  is  asked  if 
he  has  been  to  Mexico,  he  can  truthfully  respond,  "Oh, 
yes,  many  times." 

After  you  have  had  a  look  at  the  monument  and 
indulged  in  such  extras  as  seem  desirable,  you  get  into 
an  omnibus  drawn  by  four  horses,  and  away  you  go 
over  a  road  that  I  should  judge  had  never  received  any 
attention  since  it  was  first  travelled.  There  are  holes 
and  ruts  and  bumps  and  sloughs  unnumbered,  and 
whenever  I  thought  we  were  going  to  capsize  in  one 
direction,  the  vehicle  was  sure  to  lurch  and  up  went  the 


44       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

other  side  to  the  danger  point.  Much  of  the  way  was 
across  a  gullied,  brushy  level  where  the  floods  had 
rampaged.  Worse  still,  we  had  to  ford  a  swift  and 
muddy  river.  Into  it  we  splashed,  and  the  horses  half 
disappeared,"  while  the  water  swashed  up  over  the  wheel- 
hubs  and  barely  missed  coming  into  the  'bus. 

At  last  we  reached  Tia  Juana.  Its  attractions  were 
not  very  pronounced.  There  was  just  a  wide  street 
with  a  few  shops  and  saloons  on  either  side,  and  at 
some  distance  a  straggling  of  shanty  dwellings.  It  was 
on  a  bare  plateau,  but  along  the  slope  that  dipped  to 
the  valley  grew  a  few  groups  of  trees.  The  plain  swept 
away  to  a  series  of  mountain  ridges  clothed  with  cacti 
and  sagebrush.  Such  village  men  as  were  not  employed 
in  the  shops  seemed  to  be  a  lot  of  loafers,  not  given  to 
exerting  themselves  much  beyond  the  smoking  of 
cigarets. 

The  one  notable  institution  of  the  place  is  a  bull-ring, 
and  the  amphitheatre  of  seats  rises  conspicuously  just 
outside  the  hamlet.  It  is  the  patronage  of  the  Ameri- 
cans that  keeps  the  thing  going,  and  any  Sunday  on 
which  there  is  to  be  a  fight  they  come  from  San  Diego 
in  swarms.  Extra  trains  are  put  on,  and  teams  drive 
from  the  town  and  from  the  ranches  for  miles  around 
to  serve  as  stages  for  conveying  the  excitement  seekers 
from  the  station  to  the  bull-ring.  The  chief  financier 
of  the  enterprise  is  a  Mexican  who  has  a  diminutive 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  45 

butcher  shop  in  the  village.  It  seems  a  somewhat 
appropriate  branch  of  his  everyday  industry,  but  what 
can  one  say  for  the  Americans  who  encourage  the  savage 
and  degrading  exhibitions  ? 

The  cost  is  a  dollar  for  a  seat  in  the  sun,  two  dollars 
for  a  seat  in  the  shade,  and  the  audience  is  sure  to  number 
at  least  a  thousand,  and  may  rise  to  twenty-five  hundred. 
It  was  said  that  the  patronage  had  fallen  off  decidedly 
the  year  before  because  several  horses  had  been  gored 
to  death.  This  was  too  much  for  the  tender  sensibilities 
of  the  American  audience.  The  on-lookers  were  willing 
to  see  bulls  killed,  but  not  horses,  and  many  of  them 
refrained  afterward  from  going.  So  now  the  toreadors 
have  to  fight  on  foot. 

Between  Tia  Juana  and  San  Diego  is  some  very  fine 
lemon  country,  and  on  my  way  back  I  had  a  talk  with 
the  owner  of  a  twenty-acre  orchard.  "I  come  from 
Nebraska  two  years  ago,"  he  said,  "and  I  wouldn't  go 
back  to  live  if  you'd  give  me  the  whole  state.  It's  too 
cold,  and  they  have  blizzards  there  that  blow  the  trains 
off  the  railroad  tracks.  I  looked  around  down  here  and 
found  a  feller  that  was  sick  of  the  lemon  business,  and 
we  made  a  swap.  I  give  him  sixteen  hundred  acres  I 
had  in  Nebraska,  and  he  give  me  his  twenty-acre  lemon 
orchard.  Some  of  my  neighbors  up  where  I  come  from 
told  me  I  was  makin'  a  poor  bargain,  but  the  Nebraska 
land  was  only  worth  about  fifty  cents  an  acre;    so  the 


46       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

value  of  my  sixteen  hundred  acres  didn't  count  up 
very  heavy.  The  feller  I  sold  to  didn't  really  want  the 
property,  and  he  made  another  dicker  and  let  it  go  for 
the  furnishings  of  a  shooting-gallery  in  Los  Angeles 
worth  very  little  over  three  hundred  dollars. 

"They'd  been  havin'  a  spell  of  dry  years,  and  the 
lemon  orchards  wa'n't  payin'  expenses;  but  the  weather 
turned  about  and  the  trees  began  to  do  first-rate.  It 
beats  all  how  they  will  bear.  There's  blossoms  and 
green  fruit  of  every  size  and  the  ripe  lemons  right  on 
the  same  tree  the  year  through.  I  shall  clear  six  or 
seven  thousand  dollars  this  year.  Of  course  there's 
considerable  expense,  and  I  keep  from  two  to  six  men 
at  work  and  pay  'em  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  a  nine  hour 
day.  I  don't  hire  any  Mexicans — I  don't  like  their 
color;  and  I  don't  hire  niggers  or  Chinamen.  I  do 
considerable  myself,  but  I  feel  that  I'm  kind  o'  gettin' 
lazy  like  everybody  else  that  lives  in  this  climate.  It's 
very  different  from  what  I  been  used  to.  You  notice 
the  old  men  here.  They  ain't  got  the  vim  and  spirit 
they  have  in  the  East.  Back  in  Nebraska,  an  old  man 
would  think  nothing  of  chasing  a  critter  that  had  broke 
loose,  but  take  a  man  of  the  same  age  in  California,  and 
you  couldn't  get  up  a  run  with  a  pitchfork. 

"There's  something  about  the  air  that  slows  you 
down;  and  I  have  an  idee  that  once  you  get  used  to  it 
you  ain't  really  contented  anywhere  else.    Some  people 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  47 

recollect  their  old  home,  in  New  England  may  be,  and 
they  think  they'd  like  to  go  back  there  to  live.  One 
man  whose  home  was  near  my  lemon  ranch  was  always 
talkin'  that  way,  and  finally  he  sold  out  and  went;  but 
inside  of  two  months  he  was  back.  Things  there  wa'n't 
quite  like  what  he  remembered  them,  and  the  folks  he 
used  to  know  was  mostly  gone  or  changed.  So  he  de- 
cided California  was  the  place  for  him." 

Nearly  a  score  of  miles  east  of  San  Diego  is  the  broad 
fertile  valley  of  El  Cajon.  It  lies  among  the  hills  with 
lofty  rugged  mountains  overlooking  it  from  farther 
inland,  and  I  went  to  see  it,  attracted  by  the  fact  that 
it  is  famous  for  its  great  vineyards  whence  are  shipped 
each  season  hundreds  of  carloads  of  raisins.  An 
irrigating  flume  circles  the  hillslopes,  but  this  artificial 
watering  does  not  entirely  take  the  place  of  rain,  and 
in  dry  years  the  crop  is  sure  to  be  a  partial  failure. 
Most  of  the  ranches  of  this  handsome  vale  were 
mortgaged,  I  was  told.  There  are  so  many  chances  in 
weather,  in  disease,  in  pests,  and  in  price  that  a  perma- 
nent success  in  fruit  growing  in  Southern  California 
seems  to  be  somewhat  rare.  It  is  a  not  uncommon 
belief  that  dry  and  wet  periods  alternate,  each  covering 
a  series  of  several  years.  Things  boom  in  the  wet  cycle, 
while  in  the  lean  years  many  orchards  and  vineyards 
fare  so  badly  that  they  become  almost  worthless. 


48       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

I  had  come  to  El  Cajon  by  train  with  the  intention 
of  walking  back,  and  presently  I  was  plodding  along 
toward  San  Diego,  most  of  the  time  on  the  level  mesas, 
but  now  and  then  dipping  into  a  valley.  There  were 
frequent  orchards  of  oranges,  grape-fruit,  lemons  and 
olives,  some  thrifty,  some  far  otherwise.  The  orange 
trees,  though  still  loaded  with  fruit  were  coming  into 
blossom,  and  in  places  the  air  was  honeyed  with  the 
perfume.  Most  of  the  homes  I  passed  were  common- 
place little  cottages,  frequently  only  a  story  high,  apt 
to  be  ugly  from  plainness,  but  sometimes  equally  ugly 
from  over-ornamentation.  Yet  there  were  a  number  of 
really  substantial  and  attractive  dwellings,  fine  in  them- 
selves and  charming  in  their  flowery  environment. 
One  home  had  a  great  rank  hedgerow  of  roses  full  of 
white  blossoms;  but  much  of  the  land  was  as  wild  as  it 
ever  had  been,  and  was  brushed  over  with  chaparral 
and  other  shrubs,  waist  high.  A  good  deal  of  this 
was  government  land  that  could  be  bought  for  a 
dollar  an  acre.  The  country  was  at  its  greenest,  but 
when  the  spring  rains  were  past  the  ground  would 
gradually  parch  and  by  July  all  the  fields  and  pastures 
and  waysides  where  there  was  not  an  artificial  water 
system  would  be  clothed  in  somber  brown,  and  they 
would  so  continue  till  near  the  end  of  the  year. 

Half  way  in  my  journey  I  was  overtaken  by  a  young 
fellow  in  a  buggy,  and  he  invited  me  to  ride.     I  was 


/    \/,\i,  an 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  49 

glad  of  the  opportunity,  for  I  was  getting  weary,  and 
the  landscape  did  not  present  much  variety.  He  was 
from  the  East  a  twelve-month  before  and  had  been 
spending  most  of  his  time  "cow-punching"  in  the 
mountains.  He  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  country 
offered  excellent  chances  to  make  money.  But,  if  it 
was  easy  to  make,  it  was  also  uncommonly  easy  to 
spend;  "and  yet,"  said  he,  "you  can  live  here  as 
cheaply  as  anywhere  if  you  choose  to  do  so.  Now  San 
Diego  is  quite  a  resort  of  old  Civil  war  pensioners. 
They're  there  on  the  plaza  every  day  sitting  around 
under  the  shadow  of  the  palms.  I've  talked  with  'em 
and  they  say  a  man  can  bach'  it — that  is,  get  feed  for 
himself  livin'  as  a  bachelor — for  a  dollar  and  a  quarter 
a  week,  and  a  room  will  cost  a  dollar  more.  So  a 
moderate  pension  will  support  a  man  without  his  doing 
anything." 

In  my  own  experience  I  found  the  gentle  conditions 
of  life  were  best  exemplified  by  a  man  who  dwelt  near 
the  beach.  I  had  the  feeling  at  first  that  I  had  fallen 
in  with  a  shipwrecked  mariner  on  a  desert  island. 
Just  back  out  of  reach  of  the  waves  he  had  a  shanty 
seven  feet  one  way  by  eight  the  other,  and  barely  high 
enough  to  stand  up  in.  It  was  built  of  all  sorts  of  rub- 
bish; and  nearly  everything  in  the  house  and  round 
about  might  have  been  saved  from  some  castaway 
vessel,  and  indeed  was  largely  the  salvage  of  the  sea. 


50       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

The  interior  walls  were  crowded  with  shelves,  and 
from  frequent  nails  were  suspended  many  articles  of 
use  and  ornament.  The  furnishings  included  a  number 
of  pictures  and  newspapers,  and  a  few  books.  There 
was  a  bed  with  a  coverlet  made  of  an  old  sail,  a  chair 
tinkered  out  of  some  pieces  of  board,  a  rusty  little  stove, 
a  muzzle-loading  musket,  and  quantities  of  odds  and 
ends.  The  two  tiny,  single-paned  windows  each  had  a 
board  shutter  inside  and  reminded  me  of  the  port  holes 
of  a  ship. 

I  saw  all  these  details  with  some  thoroughness  because 
I  was  caught  by  a  shower  and  was  invited  to  take  shelter 
in  the  hermit's  hut.  Outside  he  had  a  shed  with  a  roof 
made  of  an  old  boat  turned  keel  upward,  and  he  had 
various  whirligig  contrivances  set  up  in  his  yard — 
weather  vanes  in  the  form  of  ships  with  sails  set  and 
propellers  revolving,  and  a  kind  of  windmill  of  odd 
construction  that  turned  a  coffee  grinder. 

The  proprietor  of  this  peculiar  conglomerate  was  a 
Maine  man  originally,  and  was  a  person  of  intelligence 
and  some  education.  His  chief  companions  were  cats, 
and  I  saw  half  a  dozen  or  more  dozing  around  the 
premises.  He  got  all  the  wood  he  needed  to  burn  from 
the  sea,  and  the  sea  furnished  him  with  much  of  his 
food.  Most  of  his  fishing  he  did  with  a  hook  and  line, 
but  sometimes  used  a  spear  when  he  went  after  halibut. 
His  gun  had  been  neglected  of  late,  because  the  last 


On  the  Borders  of  Mexico  51 

time  he  fired  it  he  was  out  on  the  water  after  ducks  and 
it  nearly  kicked  him  out  of  his  boat.  The  money  he 
needed  to  supply  his  few  wants  he  got  by  digging  and 
marketing  a  few  clams,  and  by  taking  care  of  some 
boats  belonging  to  the  town  boys,  and  by  catching 
crawfish  which  he  sold  for  bait.  During  the  twenty 
years  he  had  lived  there  he  had  never  had  an  overcoat. 
It  wasn't  his  habit  to  stand  around  on  windy  street 
corners,  he  explained,  and  therefore  in  that  mild  climate 
he  didn't  need  one. 

He  was  something  of  a  radical  in  the  matter  of 
clothing,  yet  it  is  a  fact  that  the  climate  is  singularly 
equable,  and  so  it  is  along  the  coast  of  the  entire  state; 
for  though  the  northern  extremity  of  California  is  in 
the  latitude  of  Boston  and  its  southern  end  is  opposite 
Charleston,  the  thermometer  seldom  anywhere  drops 
below  freezing  or  rises  to  what  is  often  experienced  in 
New  York  City  by  the  end  of  May.  The  breezes  from 
the  Pacific  keep  the  land  cool  in  summer  and  warm  in 
winter. 

Note. — The  visitor  at  San  Diego  can  choose  among  numberless 
hotels,  from  the  most  modest  to  the  most  palatial;  or,  if  he  prefers, 
can  camp  on  Coronado  Beach.  The  climate  is  unfailingly  gentle, 
and  the  ocean  and  fertile  valleys  and  distant  mountains  furnish 
many  attractions.  Most  points  of  interest  are  easily  accessible,  and 
the  traveller  with  limited  time  can  see  much  in  a  very  few  days.  There 
is  excellent  fishing  and  bathing.  The  glimpse  of  Mexico  one  gets  at 
Tia  Juana  should  not  be  missed,  nor  the  ancient  Mission  and  its  olive 
trees,  nor  the  adobe  homes  in  "Old  Town,"  nor  the  cavemed  cliffs 
at  La  Jolla. 


Ill 

A    RUSTIC    VILLAGE 


NOT  for  a  long  time  had  I  been  in  a  place  that 
so  filled  me  with  delight  as  did  Capistrano  in 
Southern  California.  Such  a  dreamy,  easy- 
going community — no  hurry,  no  worry — such  a  luxuri- 
ant valley,  such  lofty  environing  hills  with  the  green 
turf  clothing  every  rounded  outline!  Then,  to  the 
north,  were  the  rocky  peaks  of  a  mountain  range, 
serene  and  blue  in  the  distance.  The  village  itself 
was  a  queer  huddle  of  primitive  houses,  some  no  more 
than  board  shanties,  and  none  of  them  large  or  in  the 
least  pretentious.  However,  the  feature  that  gave 
especial  distinction  to  the  hamlet  was  the  ruin  of  an  old 
Mission,  still  impressive,  calm  and  beautiful,  and 
appealing  powerfully  to  the  imagination.  It  would 
interest  one  anywhere,  and  we  can  boast  of  so  few 
ruins  that  have  age  and  noble  proportions  in  this  new 
land  of  ours  that  the  appeal  was  doubly  strong.  Though 
the  Mission  buildings  are  much  shattered,  some  parts 
continue  in  use  even  to  this  day.  The  chime  of  four 
bells    performs    its  accustomed  service,  one  portion  is 


52 


The  story  book 


A  Rustic  Village  53 

used  as  a  church,  and  there  is  a  fine  corridor  in  an 
excellent  state  of  preservation. 

The  structures  were  begun  in  1776.  Adobe  was 
largely  used  for  the  walls,  but  the  church  was  of  stone 
with  a  lofty  tower  and  a  roof  made  of  solid  concrete 
domes.  At  early  mass  on  Christmas  morning  in  18 12 
there  was  an  earthquake  that  toppled  over  the  tower 
onto  the  body  of  the  building,  and  the  entire  roof 
crashed  down.  Forty-nine  people  were  killed.  "We've 
had  no  earthquake  worth  mentioning  since,"  one  of 
the  leading  Americans  of  the  vicinity  informed  me. 
"Of  course  there  have  been  a  good  many  tremors,  but 
they  have  been  mere  sardines  compared  with  that 
shock  of  1 8 12,  and  we  pay  no  more  attention  to  them 
than  we  would  to  a  spatter  of  rain." 

The  village  was  charmingly  pastoral.  The  insects 
thrummed,  the  children  laughed  and  called  at  their 
play,  the  roosters  crowed  in  endless  succession,  the 
dogs  barked,  and  the  cattle  lowed  from  the  luscious 
hillslopes.  And  what  throngs  of  birds  there  were! 
I  saw  them  flitting  everywhere  and  the  air  was  a-thrill 
with  their  songs.  The  mocking-birds  were  lilting  their 
varied  notes,  the  turtle-doves  sounded  their  mellow 
calls,  and  in  the  vicinity  of  the  buildings  were  multi- 
tudes of  linnets — pretty  little  birds  and  cheerful  song- 
sters, but  very  destructive  to  grapes,  apricots,  peaches, 
pears   and   berries.      In   the   pastures   the   red-winged 


54       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

blackbirds  abounded,  hovering  about  the  sheep  and 
cattle.  Often  they  could  be  seen  on  the  sheep's  backs 
picking  ofF  ticks.  Meadow  larks  were  frequently  within 
sight  and  hearing,  but  their  song  was  decidedly  coarser 
and  less  plaintive  than  in  the  East.  I  observed  many 
gay  little  birds  known  as  "canaries,"  and  there  were 
flickers  and  pewees  and  bee-martins  and  thrashers  and 
numerous  others.  Of  them  all  I  perhaps  most  enjoyed 
the  swallows.  A  few  had  been  noticed  flying  about  for 
a  week  or  two;  but  the  mass  of  them  had  come  the 
evening  before  I  arrived.  Now  they  were  darting 
everywhere,  building  under  the  eaves  of  the  houses  and 
barns  and  establishing  a  populous  colony  beneath  the 
loftiest  cornice  of  the  old  Mission  ruin.  Far  up  against 
the  blue  sky  I  would  sometimes  see  the  buzzards  soar- 
ing. Nothing  in  the  way  of  ofFal  escapes  their  alert 
eyes  or  scent.  Back  in  the  hills,  if  a  man  killed  a  gopher 
or  a  rattlesnake  or  some  such  little  creature,  there 
might  not  be  a  buzzard  in  sight  at  the  time,  but  the 
next  day  half  a  dozen  would  be  around. 

On  the  noon  that  I  reached  Capistrano  the  main 
street  was  full  of  teams  tied  to  the  wayside  hitching 
rails,  and  yet  the  place  seemed  mysteriously  devoid  of 
human  beings.  At  last  I  discovered  the  male  inhabi- 
tants of  the  region  gathered  at  the  far  end  of  the  street 
in  and  about  an  adobe  Justice  Court.  The  wide  door- 
way was  jammed  full  of  men  peering  over  each  others' 


Among  the  arches  of  the  old  Mission 


A  Rustic  Village  55 

shoulders,  and  the  case  was  evidently  of  the  most 
absorbing  and  vital  interest.  At  length,  however,  the 
gathering  broke  up,  the  village  became  populous,  and 
one  after  another  the  teams  were  unhitched  and  driven 
away.  The  excitement,  it  seemed,  concerned  two 
individuals,  one  of  whom  had  said  the  other  was  a  liar, 
and  the  latter  had  responded  that  the  former  was  a  son 
of  a  gun  and  likened  him  to  a  variety  of  similar  obnox- 
ious things.  But  the  court  failed  to  get  together  a  jury 
and  the  judge  had  dismissed  the  case.  As  a  clerk  in  a 
local  store  expressed  it,  "The  two  fellers  remind  me  of 
my  schooldays  when  one  of  us  kids'd  sometimes  go  and 
complain  to  the  teacher  saying,  'Jimmy's  been  a-callin' 
me  names.' 

'What's  he  been  callin'  you?'  she  asks  him. 

'  I  don't  like  to  tell  you,'  the  boy  says,    '  It's  awful 
bad  things.'  " 

While  I  was  in  this  store  a  fat  old  Indian  entered. 
He  had  short  hair,  wore  overalls,  and  except  for  his 
color  was  not  much  different  in  dress  and  appearance 
from  a  white  workingman.  His  breath  was  odorous 
of  liquor,  and  he  was  loquacious  and  happy.  The  clerk 
introduced  him  as  the  best  sheep-shearer  in  the  county. 
He  shook  hands  and  said,  "Me  good  man!  You  good 
man  r 

In  talking  with  him  it  was  not  easy  to  catch  the  mean- 
ing of  some  of  his  remarks.    The  common  patois  of  the 


56       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

region  used  by  both  the  whites  and  the  darker  skinned 
folk  is  based  on  Spanish,  but  with  an  intermixture  of 
Indian  and  of  words  borrowed  from  the  English.  The 
old  sheep-shearer  had  about  fifty  other  Indians  working 
under  him  in  the  season,  got  five  dollars  a  day  himself 
and  two  dollars  for  his  wife  who  did  the  cooking  for 
the  gang.  The  wealth  he  acquired  did  not  stick  to 
him.     He  gambled  it  away. 

Gambling  was  a  common  recreation  among  the 
villagers,  and  the  place  supported  four  "blind  pigs," 
or  unlicensed  saloons.  There  were  always  loafers 
hanging  about  their  porches  and  a  noisy  crowd  inside 
playing  pool.  One  of  the  Capistrano  experts  at  poker 
was  a  Chinaman  who  had  a  ranch  just  outside  the 
village.  He  lived  in  a  dirty  little  hut  there  and  kept 
his  horse  under  a  pepper  tree  with  only  the  shelter 
afforded  by  the  leafage.  For  ten  miles  around  the 
people  depended  on  him  to  supply  them  with  vegetables. 
Some  of  the  poorest  families  in  the  village  bought  of 
him,  rather  than  take  the  trouble  to  raise  their  own 
vegetables,  though  they  have  the  finest  kind  of  land 
right  at  their  doors.  "He  can't  hardly  speak  three 
words  of  English,"  I  was  told;  "but  he'll  sit  down  and 
play  poker  all  right  with  any  of  us.  Perhaps  he'll  lose 
fifty  dollars  or  more  in  a  single  sitting  and  not  go  home 
till  the  small  hours  of  the  morning;  and  yet  he'll  be  at 
his  work  that  day  as  usual  without  batting  an  eye. 
No  doubt,  on  the  whole,  he  makes  oftener  than  he  loses." 


A  Rustic  Village  57 

One  of  my  acquaintances  was  a  short,  stooping  old 
German  with  a  broken  nose.  He  lived  in  an  adobe  house 
with  walls  two  or  three  feet  thick.  "You  keep  der 
adobe  dry,"  said  he,  "und  it  vill  last  forever;  but  der 
vather  from  der  eaves  spatters  oop  und  vashes  avay 
der  bottom  till  it  breaks  down  unless  you  be  careful. 
Some  puts  on  cement  to  make  der  vails  look  nice  und 
last  more  long.  We  do  not  build  adobe  houses  now. 
It  is  quicker  to  use  boards,  und  you  cannot  keep  them 
so  clean  as  a  board  house,  und  the  air  is  not  so  goot 
inside.  Some  of  der  adobe  houses  are  one  hundred 
years  old  already,  I  tink.  I  haf  not  lif  here  always. 
My  business  is  a  bee  ranch,  twelve  miles  back  in  der 
hills.  My  home  vas  out  dere  till  der  dry  years  make 
me  move.  If  you  git  no  rain  dere  be  no  flowers — no 
not'ing.  Perhaps  der  bees  can  find  enough  to  keep 
alive,  bud  dere  is  no  vork  you  can  do  to  help.  Der 
vather  give  out  und  everyt'ing,  und  you  might  as  veil 
come  avay.  Last  year  it  vas  goot — all  right,  und  I 
t'ink  dis  year  be  good.  So  I  soon  shall  haf  to  go  dere. 
Dem  hills  are  chock  full  o'  flowers  now — oh,  yes — like 
a  flower  garden.  I  haf  not  been  dere  since  last  August. 
In  another  month  the  bees  begin  to  swarm,  und  I  haf 
to  get  ready  for  dot.  You  haf  to  be  on  der  vatch  or 
der  swarms  go  avay.  It  ish  not  often  dey  vill  go  into 
another  hive  demselves.    Dey  come  out  und  hang  on  a 


58       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

bush  while  der  scouts  are  lookin'  for  a  goot  place. 
Maybe  a  place  is  found  und  dey  be  off  in  one  half  hour. 
Maybe  dey  hang  on  der  bush  two,  three  day  or  a  veek. 
"  Many  time  we  haf  bees  fly  over  dis  town.  Perhaps 
dey  stop  und  someone  catch  und  put  dem  in  an  old  box, 
und  dey  make  honey.  Bud  der  honey  ish  not  much 
goot.  Der  flowers  down  here  are  not  like  dose  on  der 
hills.  Here  der  country  soon  be  yellow  mit  wild  mus- 
tard, und  dat  make  der  honey  a  bitter  taste  und  catch 
in  your  throat,  just  like  as  if  you  eat  too  much  pepper. 
You  couldn't  sell  it.  Sometimes  a  swarm  vill  get  in  a 
house.  It  vill  go  in  a  crack,  und  perhaps  der  bees  vill 
make  honey  in  der  ceiling,  und  it  vill  begin  to  leak 
through.  Den  der  people  haf  to  tear  a  hole  und  drive 
der  bees  out. 

"  Der  honey  in  der  hills  is  white  as  vather.  Der  bees 
haf  hundreds  of  kind  of  flowers  dere,  but  der  best  is 
der  sagebrush.  I  wear  a  veil  when  I  handle  der  bees 
und  gloves  mitout  fingers.  You  cannot  tell  ven  der 
bees  vill  sting — some  days  not  at  all,  und  other  days 
dey  joost  like  bulldogs.  Dey  sting  ven  dey  feels  like 
it,  according  to  der  veather. 

"Each  hive  of  bees  vill  make  from  one  hundred  to 
five  hundred  pounds  of  honey  in  a  goot  season,  und  I 
get  about  thirty  tons  from  my  two  hundred  stands. 
Der  bees  fill  der  frames  each  season  half  a  dozen  times. 
We  extract  der  honey  by  puttin'  der  frames  in  a  machine 


A  Rustic  Village  59 

dat  whirls  dem  and  throws  der  honey  out,  bud  leaves 
der  comb  to  be  put  back  in  der  hives.  Dis  vay  der  bees 
are  save  much  vork,  und  dey  get  twice  der  honey  dey 
used  to  did.  In  July  already  you  can  do  not'ing  any 
more.  Der  best  flowers  are  past  und  things  are  getting 
dry  und  der  bees  can  only  make  what  dey  need  dem- 
selves." 

We  were  sitting  on  the  post  office  piazza,  and  here 
we  were  joined  just  then  by  a  man  who  was  a 
former  resident  of  the  village  and  had  recently  arrived 
for  a  visit.  He  accosted  my  companion  and  they  were 
soon  discussing  incidents  of  the  past.  Among  other 
things  they  mentioned  cock  fights,  and  the  German 
said,  "Eighteen  or  nineteen  years  ago  dey  use  to  haf 
a  cock  fight  mos'  every  Sunday,  but  I  didn't  see  him 
now  for  a  long  time." 

When  the  newcomer  moved  on,  the  German  happened 
to  turn  his  eyes  toward  home  and  remarked,  "  I  haf 
now  to  go  to  my  house.  Dere  is  a  peacock  from  my 
neighbor  dot  I  can  see  on  der  roof.  Sometime  it  vill 
stay  dere  all  der  night  and  holler;   so  I  vill  drive  it  off"." 

The  peacock  belonged  on  a  place  that  formerly  was 
the  home  of  Don  Foster,  the  feudal  lord  of  the  region. 
He  had  hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres,  and  sheep  and 
cattle  unnumbered,  and  he  set  a  generous  table  free  to 
all  comers.  Indeed,  two  or  three  dozen  of  the  villagers 
were  constantly  fed  at  his  board  and  he  really  supported 


60       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"the  whole  shooting  match;"  for  they  did  practically 
no  work. 

The  most  exciting  period  in  the  village  history  was 
that  immediately  following  the  acquisition  of  California 
by  the  Americans.  To  quote  a  leading  citizen,  "There 
was  then  a  band  of  sixty  or  seventy  disgruntled  Mexi- 
cans known  as  'Manillas'  who  were  a  terror  to  all  the 
region.  They  had  a  leader  by  the  name  of  Basquez 
who  was  credited  with  all  sorts  of  savagery  and  wild 
escapades.  He  delighted  to  come  unexpectedly  when 
a  dance  was  in  progress  and  join  in  the  merry-making 
and  cut  the  fandango.  Then,  again,  he  would  dash 
into  a  village  with  all  his  troop  and  commence  firing. 
At  once  there'd  be  a  yell,  'Basquez  is  in  town!'  and 
you'd  ought  to  see  the  people  hide. 

"The  Manillas  sailed  in  here  one  day  and  captured 
the  town,  all  except  Don  Foster's  house.  There's  one 
old  man  living  in  Capistrano  now  who  at  the  time  of 
that  raid  had  a  store  here.  When  they  broke  into  his 
place  he  crawled  under  a  big  basket  among  some  rags 
and  rubbish  in  a  corner.  He  heard  the  Mexicans 
helping  themselves  to  his  firearms  and  nice  things,  but 
he  kept  quiet  and  as  soon  as  it  was  night  he  escaped 
to  Don  Foster's.  After  about  a  week  the  Manillas  got 
news  that  the  sheriff  was  comin'  with  a  posse  from  Los 
Angeles  to  punish  them,  and  they  went  and  bush- 
whacked him  and  killed  all  but  one  man.    The  sheriff 


A  Rustic  Village  61 

made  a  brave  fight,  and  as  he  lay  dying  he  kept  firing 
his  pistol  at  the  fellows  as  long  as  he  could  hold  it. 

"In  a  short  time  another  and  bigger  posse  was 
gathered.  Then  the  Mexicans  scattered,  but  within  a 
few  months  they'd  nearly  all  been  hunted  down.  When 
one  was  caught  there  were  no  legal  proceedings.  He 
was  just  hung  to  a  sycamore  tree,  or  stood  up  against 
an  adobe  wall  and  shot.  Last  of  all  they  waylaid  Bas- 
quez  and  shot  him  all  to  pieces. 

"This  was  a  much  bigger  place  years  ago.  In  1870 
there  were  nearly  two  thousand  inhabitants.  Now 
there  are  less  than  four  hundred.  But  in  those  days 
they  were  practically  all  Mexicans  and  Indians,  and 
they  didn't  work  any  more  than  was  necessary  to  exist. 
A  few  watermelons  and  a  sack  or  two  of  beans  will 
suffice  a  Mexican  family  for  a  year.  They  live  from 
hand  to  mouth,  and  are  content  to  half  starve  rather 
than  exert  themselves.  Why,  an  energetic  American 
will  raise  a  crop  of  walnuts  and  clear  in  a  single  season 
four  or  five  thousand  dollars,  which  is  more  than  a 
Mexican  would  clear  in  four  or  five  thousand  years. 

"Most  of  the  Indians  have  drifted  ofF  to  the  reserva- 
tions to  get  the  benefit  of  Uncle  Sam's  coddling.  We've 
managed  to  pauperize  nearly  the  whole  race.  If  some- 
one else  will  support  them  they  quit  doing  anything  for 
themselves  and  are  just  loafers.  As  for  the  Mexicans 
they  were  never  reconciled  to  the  change  of  government, 


62       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

and  when  there  come  a  mining  excitement  down  in 
their  home  country  many  of  them  went  there  and  never 
returned.  In  spite  of  the  decrease  of  numbers  we 
really  get  more  out  of  the  land  than  ever  before.  Never- 
theless there's  plenty  of  laziness  still.  Work  is  plenty 
and  men  can  earn  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day;  but  if 
they  take  a  job  they  soon  are  tired  or  get  too  much 
money  and  lay  off.  A  Mexican  with  five  dollars  will 
spend  it  like  a  lord.  He  is  very  apt  to  get  drunk  on 
Saturday  night,  and  you  never  know  whether  he  will 
be  back  to  his  work  Monday  morning  or  not.  Some 
families  are  so  shiftless  we  are  obliged  to  support  'em. 
The  county  allows  such  from  five  to  ten  dollars  a  month. 
But  they  don't  consider  themselves  indigents.  They 
are,  rather,  indignants.  We  have  no  paupers.  They 
call  themselves  'pensioners'  and  think  it  an  honor  to 
get  public  aid." 

English  walnut  growing  had  chief  place  among  the 
local  industries,  and  there  were  a  number  of  extensive 
groves.  The  trees  spread  out  like  apple  trees,  but  have 
a  smooth  light-gray  bark.  In  the  walnut  harvest-time 
the  school  closes  for  six  weeks  to  give  the  children  a 
chance  to  help  gather  the  crop.  Some  of  the  nuts  fall 
of  themselves,  but  a  large  proportion  are  thrashed  off 
with  poles.  Often  the  poles  have  a  hook  on  the  end 
and  by  their  aid  the  branches  are  shaken.  The  ground 
is   free   from  weeds   and   has   been  gone  over  with   a 


A  Rustic  Village  63 

smoother  so  that  the  picking  up  is  easy.  A  sack  is  the 
usual  receptacle,  but  the  women  use  their  aprons.  The 
nuts  are  spread  on  big  racks  to  dry,  where  they  are 
stirred  once  in  a  while  with  a  garden  rake.  In  two 
days  of  clear  warm  weather  they  are  ready  to  ship. 

There  were  a  number  of  the  great  slatted  drying 
benches  in  a  yard  back  of  my  hotel.  A  few  nuts  were 
still  left  on  the  frames,  and  I  often  loitered  there  and 
feasted.  If  I  chose  I  could  supplement  the  nuts  with 
oranges  picked  from  trees  in  the  garden.  The  hotel 
was  an  old-time  stage-route  tavern — a  big,  long  two- 
story  building  with  a  piazza  and  balcony  on  both  front 
and  rear.  I  had  to  go  upstairs  outside  and  walk  along 
the  balcony  to  get  to  my  room,  which  was  a  rather  bare 
and  shabby  apartment,  with  a  bed  that  had  two  boxes 
under  it  to  prop  up  the  slats.  "We  had  a  heavy-weight 
sleeping  in  your  bed  last  night,"  explained  the  land- 
lord, "and  he  broke  through." 

Behind  the  hotel  were  all  sorts  of  whitewashed  barns 
and  sheds  and  shacks,  including  a  kitchen  and  dining- 
room  which  were  under  a  roof  by  themselves.  Sus- 
pended from  a  full-foliaged  pepper  tree  was  a  frame- 
work box  covered  with  fly-netting.  This  served  for  a 
refrigerator.  Among  the  various  lodgers  at  the  hotel 
when  I  arrived  were  three  men  who  were  driving  a 
couple  of  wagons  to  San  Diego.  They  had  been  stop- 
ping four  days  on  account  of  rains  that  had  flooded 


64       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

the  rivers.  There  were  no  bridges,  and  the  quicksands 
at  the  fords  were  treacherous.  That  evening  one  of 
the  men  came  into  the  office  and  sat  down  on  the 
counter.  The  landlord  entered  soon  after,  and  he  too 
roosted  on  the  counter. 

"What  was  that  noise  I  heard  as  I  passed  through 
the  yard  ?"  asked  the  traveller.  "It  was  in  your  barn, 
and,  by  gee!  I  thought  it  was  snoring." 

"That's  what  it  was,"  replied  the  landlord.  "It 
was  my  old  black  horse.  He  can  snore  to  beat  the  band. 
He  lies  down  flat  with  his  head  stretched  out  on  the 
ground,  and  at  it  he  goes.  You  punch  him  to  wake 
him  up,  and  he  grunts  just  like  a  person  that's  dead 
tired.     He's  the  darndest  horse  I  ever  see." 

"Well,"  said  the  traveller,  "my  father  used  to  have 
a  pair  of  horses  that  was  great  hands  for  sugar.  When 
we  got  'em  out  to  go  anywhere  they  wouldn't  start 
unless  we  give  'em  each  a  lump  of  sugar.  Without 
that  you  couldn't  get  'em  to  budge — not  to  save  your 
neck  from  the  rope.  Those  horses  was  a  cute  pair. 
One  time  some  of  us  young  fellers  took  'em  and  drove 
to  the  beach  for  a  picnic.  We  left  'em  on  a  hill  not  far 
from  the  shore  tied  to  the  wagon,  one  on  each  side. 
Then  we  went  down  to  the  sea  and  fooled  around  and 
had  a  swim,  and  by  the  time  we  dumb  back  up  the  hill 
we  was  hungry  as  wolves.  We'd  left  our  lunch  in  the 
back  end  of  the  wagon.    It  was  in  a  handle  basket  that 


A  Rustic  Village  65 

had  a  lid  flopping  up  from  either  way;  and,  sir,  those 
horses  had  got  the  covers  up,  one  workin'  on  this  side, 
one  on  that,  and  eaten  every  blessed  thing,  pie  and  all. 
My,  wa'n't  we  mad!  We  made  'em  pay  for  their  grub 
though  by  running  'em  home,  seven  miles  in  thirty 
minutes." 

"You've  decided  to  leave  tomorrow,  have  you?" 
said  the  landlord. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other,  "and  I'd  have  gone 
before  if  we  hadn't  been  drivin'  mules.  A  horse  with 
a  load  stuck  in  a  quicksand  will  try  its  best  to  struggle 
out;  but  a  mule  will  just  lie  down,  and  as  soon  as  a 
mule's  ears  get  full  of  water  there's  no  saving  him. 
He'll  drown  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do." 

In  response  to  some  questions  of  mine  the  landlord 
became  reminiscent.  "My  people  come  here  in  1870," 
said  he,  "about  fifteen  years  before  the  railroad  was 
built,  and  papa  bought  the  store  which  is  now  the  hotel 
office.  Capistrano  was  on  the  main  route  north  and 
south,  but  there  was  no  place  in  town  where  travellers 
could  stay.  They  used  to  bother  papa  asking  for 
accommodations,  and  finally  he  built  on  to  the  old  store 
and  made  this  big  two-story  hotel,  and  by  golly,  in 
those  days  it  was  jammed  all  the  time.  The  stable 
was  full  too,  and  we  kept  a  regular  hostler.  From  the 
stable  alone  we  took  in  nearly  a  thousand  dollars  a 
month.     The  daily  stages,  one  going  south,  one  going 


66       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

north,  met  here  at  midnight,  and  we  always  had  hot 
coffee  ready  for  persons  that  wanted  it.  You've  noticed 
how  the  village  people  go  and  hang  around  the  depot 
to  see  the  trains  come  in.  Well,  they  used  to  gather 
at  our  hotel  just  as  thick  to  see  those  midnight  stages 
arrive.  The  building  of  the  railroad  made  a  great 
sensation  in  the  town.  When  the  first  engine  poked 
her  nose  in  sight  a  good  many  of  the  people  fled  to  their 
homes  and  buried  themselves  under  the  bed-clothes. 
It  was  weeks  before  some  of  'em  would  come  out  of 
their  rooms,  and  there's  those  here  today  that  you 
could  no  more  get  on  a  train  than  you  could  get  them 
to  fly.  If  they  have  to  go  to  Santa  Ana,  twenty-five 
miles  away,  they'll  squat  in  the  back  end  of  a  lumber 
wagon  and  jolt  along  that  fashion  rather  than  trust 
themselves  to  the  train. 

"This  was  a  rough  town  in  the  old  days.  Behind 
the  counter  in  our  store  we  had  a  pistol  every  few  feet 
to  be  ready  for  emergencies.  We  ran  a  bar  in  connec- 
tion with  the  store,  and  one  day  an  Indian  come  in 
and  wanted  liquor.  He  was  drunk  already,  and  I  told 
him  he  couldn't  have  any  more.  That  didn't  suit  him 
and  he  drew  a  knife  on  me.  I  picked  up  a  pistol  and 
gave  him  a  welt  with  the  butt  that  laid  him  flat  on  his 
back.  Then  I  took  him  by  the  heels  and  dragged  him 
out  into  the  street.  I  thought  he  was  dead,  but  pretty 
soon  he  drew  up  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other.    After 


An  Indian  family 


A  Rustic  Village  67 

that  he  tried  to  sit  up,  but  he'd  roll  over  back  on  the 
ground.    At  last,  however,  he  made  out  to  crawl  away. 

"  Papa  had  almost  the  same  experience  with  a 
Mexican.  The  fellow  stooped  down  and  took  from  his 
bootleg  a  knife  eighteen  inches  long  and  sharpened  on 
both  edges.  But  while  he  was  stooping  papa  got  a 
couple  of  pistols  and  poked  'em  into  his  face  as  he 
looked  up  and  said,  'You  give  me  that  knife  or  I'll 
blow  the  top  of  your  head  off.' 

"  '  Boss,  don't  shoot,'  the  fellow  said,  and  he  laid 
down  the  knife. 

"  'I'm  goin'  to  take  that  knife  up  to  Los  Angeles,' 
papa  told  him,  'and  leave  it  and  your  name  with  the 
sheriff,  and  the  next  time  you  don't  behave  they'll  come 
down  here  and  kill  you.' 

"The  Mexican  was  scared.  'Don't  do  that,  boss,' 
he  begged.  'You  give  me  back  my  knife,  and  I'll  work 
for  you  as  long  as  you  want.' 

"So  finally  papa  give  him  the  knife,  and  after  that 
the  Mexican  was  his  best  friend.  There  was  nothing 
the  fellow  wouldn't  do  for  him. 

"You  ought  to  be  here  the  last  day  of  Lent — Judas 
Day,  we  call  it.  The  night  before,  it  is  customary  for 
the  Mexicans  to  ransack  the  village  and  steal  buggies 
and  tools  and  anything  they  can  carry  off",  and  they 
make  a  big  pile  of  all  this  plunder  just  outside  the  fence 
in  front  of  the  old  Mission.    Then  they  take  a  worn-out 


68       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

suit  of  clothes  and  stuff  it  full  of  weeds  and  stick  it  up 
on  top  of  the  pile,  and  that  is  Judas.  Next  they  get 
an  old  dress  and  stuff"  that  full  of  weeds  and  set  it  up 
side  of  Judas  to  represent  his  wife.  In  the  morning 
when  we  wake  up  we  find  all  the  vehicles  and  loose 
things  that  were  around  our  yards  stacked  up  over  by 
the  Mission,  with  those  two  scarecrow  figures  on  top. 
But  the  best  of  the  performance  comes  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  Mexicans  bring  to  the  village  two  half-wild 
bulls  from  the  hills.  They  tie  Judas  to  one,  and  Judas's 
wife  to  the  other  and  chase  the  creatures  up  and  down 
the  street  till  the  two  figures  are  torn  to  tatters. 

"There  was  one  Judas  Day  a  tramp  come  to  town, 
and  he  stopped  at  the  store  and  bought  a  couple  of 
dozen  eggs.  As  he  was  goin'  out  of  the  door  carryin' 
the  eggs  in  a  bucket  papa  says  to  him,  'They're  just 
turnin'  the  bulls  loose  out  there,  and  you'd  better  wait 
a  while.' 

"But  he  said  he  was  in  a  hurry  and  he  wouldn't  stop. 
We  watched  him,  and  about  the  time  he  got  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  one  of  the  bulls  come  tearin'  along  and 
hits  him  in  the  seat  of  the  pants.  He  went  one  way 
and  his  eggs  went  another,  and  that  would  have  been 
the  end  of  him  if  the  vaqueros  hadn't  galloped  to  his 
rescue.  He  was  mad  and  he  went  to  Judge  Bacon's 
office  and  said,  'I  want  to  have  these  fellows  out  here 
arrested.     They've  been  lettin'  wild  and  vicious  animals 


A  Rustic  Village  69 

loose  in  the  street  and  I've  been  knocked  down,  and 
two  dozen  eggs  I'd  just  bought  are  all  smashed.' 

'Well,'  the  Judge  said,  'I  don't  like  to  arrest  these 
men.  This  is  an  annual  celebration,  and  the  men 
themselves  didn't  do  the  damage.  If  anyone  is  to  be 
arrested  it  ought  to  be  the  bull.' 

"  '  I  don't  care  who  or  what  it  is  you  arrest,'  the  tramp 
said;   'I  want  justice  done.' 

"  'Don't  bother  me  any  longer,'  the  Judge  said,  and 
he  pulled  out  a  dollar.  'Here,  take  this  and  go  buy 
some  more  eggs,'  said  he. 

"So  the  fellow  left  satisfied." 

The  traveller  sitting  beside  the  landlord  now  got 
down  off  the  counter  and  stretched  himself.  "Who  was 
the  man  that  was  here  to  dinner  and  went  away  just 
afterward  on  the  train  ?"  he  inquired. 

"It  was  a  doctor,"  the  landlord  replied.  "He  had 
some  thought  of  settling  here;  but  I  told  him  he'd 
starve  to  death.  You  see  the  people  avoid  callin'  a 
doctor  till  the  sick  person  has  one  foot  in  the  grave  and 
the  other  following  after.  The  old  women  think  they 
can  cure  most  anyone  with  herbs  and  weeds,  and  they 
keep  dosing  the  sick  person  till  he's  nearly  dead.  Then 
if  the  doctor  can  pull  him  through  things  are  all  right; 
but  if  the  doctor  has  his  patient  die  on  him  they'll 
never  pay  for  his  services. 


70       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"Whenever  there's  a  death,  whether  it  is  day  or 
night,  the  first  thing  that  is  done  is  to  make  a  run  for 
the  Mission  to  toll  the  bells.  They  toll  the  two  big 
ones  for  a  grown  person  and  the  two  little  ones  for  a 
child.  The  bells  toll  for  ten  minutes,  and  all  the  friends 
and  relatives  start  for  the  house  of  mourning — get  up 
out  of  their  beds  to  go,  if  it  is  night.  The  corpse  is 
dressed  in  what  had  been  the  deceased's  best  clothes 
and  is  put  on  a  table,  and  candles  are  lighted  and  set 
about  on  the  table,  and  outside  on  the  porch.  When 
all  this  has  been  done  the  company  kneel  and  sing  a 
hymn.  Each  new  arrival  who  comes  later  kneels  by 
the  body  and  says  a  prayer,  and  some  of  the  women 
are  praying  pretty  constantly.  A  crowd  is  hanging 
around  all  the  time  till  after  the  funeral. 

"On  the  day  of  the  death,  or  the  one  following,  some 
of  the  men  go  up  to  the  cemetery  to  dig  the  grave; 
but  they  have  a  big  demijohn  of  wine  with  them,  and 
they're  sure  to  quit  when  they've  got  down  about  three 
feet.  The  next  night  there  is  a  wake  and  a  feast.  It  is 
the  fashion  to  eat,  drink  and  be  merry  and  fight.  If 
the  night  is  cool  the  men  and  boys  build  a  fire  outside 
which  they  gather  around.  By  three  or  four  in  the 
morning  they  are  ready  to  scrap.  They  are  full  of  their 
cheap  wine  then,  and  it  don't  require  much  to  stir 
their  anger. 

"The  morning  after  the  wake,  at  ten  o'clock,  the  bell 


A  Rustic  Village  71 

begins  to  toll  for  the  funeral  and  the  grave-diggers 
hustle  off  to  finish  their  work.  An  hour  later  the 
funeral  takes  place.  The  coffin  is  usually  an  ordinary 
box  made  in  the  village  and  covered  with  black  cloth 
for  an  adult,  white  for  a  child.  On  the  cloth  are 
fastened  many  flowers,  and  crosses  and  other  figures 
made  out  of  tissue  and  gold  papers.  The  coffin  is  carried 
on  men's  shoulders  to  the  church  where  the  people  sing 
a  hymn  and  then  go  to  the  grave  bearing  the  coffin  in 
relays.  At  the  cemetery  they  sing  again,  and  recite  a 
prayer.  Lastly  the  body  is  lowered  into  the  grave  and 
every  man,  woman  and  child  tosses  in  a  handful  of 
dirt." 

For  twenty-five  dollars  a  family  can  have  a  priest 
conduct  the  funeral,  and  while  he  goes  through  the 
sacred  rites,  the  coffin  reposes  on  a  table  in  the  church. 
For  fifty  dollars  a  more  elaborate  service  can  be  had, 
and  the  coffin  rests  on  two  tables,  one  placed  on  the 
other,  while  for  seventy-five  dollars  the  coffin  has  three 
tables  beneath  and  the  priest  puts  on  his  full  robes, 
swings  the  censer,  brings  forth  the  silver  candlesticks 
and  makes  the  ceremony  superlatively  impressive. 

Weddings  take  place  at  the  church  at  high  noon, 
and  the  rest  of  the  day  and  the  night  till  broad  daylight 
is  spent  in  feasting  and  dancing  and  in  eating  a  barbe- 
cued beef. 


72       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

A  christening  is  also  an  occasion  for  "a  big  blowout." 
It  takes  place  on  Sunday,  of  course,  and  outside  of  the 
Mission  in  the  churchyard  is  a  crowd  of  men  and  boys 
who,  as  soon  as  the  christening  party  comes  forth,  begin 
to  shout  and  fire  pistols  and  guns,  and  they  follow  the 
party  home  banging  away  as  they  go. 

An  Eastern  girl,  not  long  before,  had  told  me  some- 
thing of  her  experience  as  a  school  teacher  in  San  Diego 
County.  She  was  twenty  miles  back  from  the  railroad 
among  the  hills.  The  people  were  Americans,  but  they 
were  shiftless  and  ignorant,  and  the  women  and  children 
did  most  of  the  work.  The  man  at  the  place  where  she 
boarded  was  a  fair  sample  of  what  the  other  men  were. 
He  did  not  drink  or  smoke  and  was  in  no  wise  vicious, 
but  he  didn't  amount  to  anything.  The  woman  and 
her  children  looked  after  the  garden,  took  care  of  the 
cows,  raised  the  chickens,  harvested  the  crops,  and 
brought  the  house  water  from  a  spring  a  half  mile 
distant.  The  older  girls,  when  they  came  from  school, 
would  put  on  overalls  and  milk  the  cows.  Often  the 
children  were  dismissed  from  school  to  run  the  mowing- 
machine  and  get  in  the  oats  and  barley  which  were 
raised  for  hay.  The  woman  would  even  go  and  dig 
greasewood  roots  which  they  cut  up  for  household  fuel. 
Sometimes  she  would  get  ready  a  load  of  the  roots,  and 
the  man  would  take  the  load  to  the  nearest  town  to  sell. 
He  occasionally  did  a  little  ploughing,  but  he  would  exert 


A  Rustic  Village  73 

himself  most  in  hunting  wild  bees  that  had  made  their 
homes  in  the  hollow  oaks. 

There  was  no  feminine  timidity  in  that  region.  The 
girls  were  ready  to  kill  rattlesnakes  as  often  as  they 
encountered  them  and  all  the  women  could  shoot.  Every 
few  days  the  teacher's  landlady  went  out  with  her  gun 
and  would  return  with  five  or  six  rabbits. 

The  children  were  all  apt  to  be  at  school  regularly; 
but  this  was  because  short  attendance  would  mean  a 
curtailing  of  the  school  money.  The  parents,  however, 
were  not  at  all  particular  to  have  their  progeny  there 
on  time,  or  to  have  them  stay  the  sessions  out.  Still, 
they  preferred  a  clean  record,  and  in  order  that  the 
children  should  not  be  marked  tardy  they  requested 
the  teacher  to  turn  the  clock  back  an  hour  or  so  in  the 
morning.  Their  previous  teacher  had  done  this,  they 
said.  The  pupils  were  very  docile  and  patient.  They 
seemed  not  to  have  life  enough  to  be  mischievous,  and 
they  could  be  kept  on  the  same  lesson  for  two  weeks 
and  never  utter  a  complaint.  Indeed,  they  would  study 
it  just  as  faithfully  at  the  end  of  that  period  as  at  the 
beginning. 

This  glimpse  of  educational  conditions  stimulated  a 
desire  to  visit  the  school  at  Capistrano.  I  found  about 
seventy-five  children  in  two  rooms,  the  little  ones  under 
a  young  woman,  the  upper  grades  under  a  young  man. 
They  were  an  odd  mixture,  whites  and  Mexicans  and 


74       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Indians,  and  various  combinations  of  the  races.  The 
dark-skinned  children  are  as  a  whole  lazy  and  un- 
reliable. They  would  as  soon  tell  an  untruth  as  not, 
if  it  will  be  accepted.  As  one  man  said,  "They  are  like 
a  Chinaman — if  he  steals  and  is  found  out,  his  act  is  a 
sin.     Otherwise,  he  esteems  his  dishonesty  a  virtue." 

Many  of  the  children  have  only  a  vague  understand- 
ing of  English,  and  this  makes  their  progress  in  school 
doubly  slow.  The  building  and  its  surroundings  and 
the  two  teachers  were  all  that  could  be  desired.  A 
generation  ago  the  place  had  no  school,  but  one  day  a 
New  England  resident  of  the  village  stumbled  on  the 
fact  that  they  could  get  money  from  the  state  for  edu- 
cational purposes.  This  man  was  the  local  Justice  of 
the  Peace,  and  known  as  Judge  Bacon.  "The  people 
here  didn't  want  to  learn  anything,"  said  one  of  the 
early  settlers  in  telling  me  the  story,  "  and  if  a  school  of 
the  usual  sort  had  been  established  they  wouldn't  have 
attended.  They'd  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  public 
school,  but  they  didn't  really  know  what  it  was.  Why, 
these  billy-goats  had  the  idea  it  was  a  sort  of  institution 
to  make  Protestants  out  of  'em.  To  get  around  that 
snag  Bacon  went  to  the  padre  and  asked  him  to  start 
the  school  and  teach  it  himself  in  his  little  rooms  at  the 
old  Mission. 

"Well,  the  padre  couldn't  spell  one  syllable  of 
English,  but  Bacon  got  him  to  undertake  the  job,  and 


On  the  pon  b  at  the  village  sti 


A  Rustic  Village  75 

dug  up  a  diploma  from  somewhere  allowing  him  to 
accept  the  position.  The  children  came,  and  he  kept 
along  and  kept  along  for  a  year  or  so.  Most  of  the 
school  conversation  was  in  the  Spanish  language,  and 
what  was  learned  didn't  amount  to  much,  but  it  was  a 
start  and  about  the  only  way  a  school  here  could  start. 
However,  at  the  end  of  a  year  Bacon  persuaded  the 
padre  that  teaching  school  was  beneath  the  dignity  of 
a  Catholic  priest  and  fixed  things  so  the  priest  was 
authorized  to  hire  a  nice  young  lady  to  take  his  place. 
He  got  one  and  she  taught  about  three  months,  when 
we  had  a  horse  race  here  and  some  feller  came  along 
and  made  love  to  her.  The  result  was  she  ran  away 
with  him,  and  gad!    we've  never  seen  her  since. 

"The  school  was  Bacon's  hobby,  and  he  got  a 
building  put  up  and  afterward  painted  it  himself — spent 
three  weeks  at  the  job.  He  laid  out  the  grounds  around 
with  the  notion  of  having  a  sort  of  park,  and  he  urged 
that  there  should  be  put  on  the  post  at  each  corner  of 
the  fence  a  big  globe  having  the  entire  world  mapped  on 
it.  Then,  inside,  on  an  arch  over  the  teacher's  alcove 
he  wanted  a  motto  painted — '  The  poorest  child  may  tread 
the  classic  halls  of  yore.'  But  there  were  two  other 
trustees,  and  we  wouldn't  agree  to  these  things.  We 
didn't  see  much  sense  to  'the  classic  halls  of  yore,' 
and  were  afraid  it  would  only  get  us  laughed  at.     So, 


76       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

instead,  we  finally  had  an  eagle  and  some  stars  painted 
on  the  arch. 

"  Bacon  knew  how  to  read  and  write,  but  that  was 
about  the  extent  of  his  book  learning.  He  was  one  of 
the  argonauts  of  '49.  He  made  money  in  mines  and 
then  he  invested  in  cattle  here.  His  home  was  an  old 
adobe  without  a  floor,  but  he  was  rich — oh,  heavens! 
he  had  money  galore.  As  soon  as  he  got  the  school 
building  done  he  put  in  a  seventy-five  dollar  chandelier 
to  light  up  so  they  could  have  dances.  He  paid  for 
it — plunked  up  every  nickel  himself,  and  he  furnished 
the  oil,  and  he  hired  a  dancing  master  to  come  from 
Los  Angeles.  They  had  a  dance  every  Wednesday 
night.  One  day  he  says  to  a  mother,  'Why  wasn't  your 
girl  there  last  time  V 

"  'She  can't  go  no  more,'  the  mother  says.  'She's 
just  wearin'  out  her  Sunday  gaiters  on  the  floor  there, 
and  I  can't  have  it.' 

"  '  Buy  her  a  pair  of  gaiters,  and  I'll  pay  for  'em,' 
says  he;  and  after  that  he  had  to  buy  gaiters  for  every 
girl  in  town,  you  bet-cher! 

"In  fact  he  got  into  the  habit  of  buying  anything 
the  girls  said  they  wanted  for  the  dancing.  But  after 
a  while  they  carried  matters  a  little  too  far.  I  remember 
how  he  called  on  me  and  said,  'One  of  my  best  dancers 
that  lives  down  here  on  the  lane  has  balked.' 

"  'What  has  she  balked  for?'  I  asked. 


A  Rustic  Village  77 

"  'Well,'  he  replies,  'she  says  she's  got  no  corsets. 
Now  I've  give  them  girls  calico  frocks  and  shoes  and 
lots  of  things,  but  I've  got  to  draw  the  line  somewhere, 
and  I  won't  give  'em  corsets.' 

"After  that  the  weekly  dance  ran  down.  Then  pretty 
soon  the  idea  struck  him  he'd  like  to  learn  music.  So 
he  sent  to  Philadelphia  for  instruments  to  fit  out  a 
brass  band,  and  he  got  the  finest  that  money  could  buy. 
He  distributed  them  among  a  lot  of  old  pickles  of  his 
caliber,  but  I  told  him  he'd  forgot  one  thing — 'Whoever 
heard  of  a  brass  band  without  a  banjo  ?'  I  said. 

"At  once  he  telegraphed  to  have  a  banjo  sent  re- 
gardless of  expense.  Those  old  stiffs  he  picked  out  for 
members  of  the  band  knew  no  more  about  music  than 
a  dog  does  about  his  grandfather;  but  they  went  to 
practising  in  a  room  here  in  the  town  and  kept  at  it 
till  the  neighbors  fired  'em  out.  Then  they  made  their 
headquarters  ofF  a  couple  of  miles  on  a  sheep  ranch 
where  the  coyotes  were  in  the  habit  of  gathering  to 
serenade  the  ranch  dwellers.  They  petered  out  after 
a  while.  The  only  fellow  among  them  who  pretended 
to  do  real  well  was  the  man  with  the  bass  drum.  'Oh, 
yes,'  he'd  say,  'I'm  gettin'  along  first  rate.  All  I  have 
to  do  is  to  draw  off  once  in  a  while  and  give  her  a  devil 
of  a  whack!' 

"Bacon  was  an  old  resident  when  I  came,  and  he's 
been  long  dead.    It  was  his  habit  every  time  he  wanted 


78       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

to  go  away  anywhere  to  buy  two  or  three  white  shirts. 
When  he'd  worn  'em  he'd  chuck  'em  in  a  closet  and 
never  bother  with  'em  again.  After  his  death,  when 
things  was  bein'  settled  up,  we  come  across  all  that 
big  heap  of  white  shirts,  and  we  threw  'em  outside. 
The  result  was  that  every  Mexican  in  the  place  wore  a 
white  shirt  for  the  next  few  months." 

Note. — Capistrano  is  not  a  tourist  resort,  and  its  hotel  accommoda- 
tions are  poor;  yet  this  lack  is  not  without  certain  picturesque  com- 
pensations. The  village  is  one  of  the  quaintest,  its  setting  among  the 
hills  is  charming,  and  it  has  the  most  imposing  and  beautiful  Mission 
ruin  in  California.  No  traveller  who  goes  to  San  Diego  can  afford  to 
miss  visiting  the  place,  if  only  to  stop  off  from  one  train  and  go  on  by 
the  next.  The  outlying  sections  of  the  village  where  the  Indians  and 
poorer  inhabitants  dwell  should  not  be  neglected;  and  it  would  be 
well  to  visit  the  wild,  abrupt  coast.  This  is  close  at  hand  and  has  an 
added  interest  because  of  the  adventurous  incidents  which  Dana  in 
his  "Two  Years  Before  the  Mast"  describes  as  occurring  in  his 
experience  there. 


bx 


IV 

SPRING    IN    SOUTHERN    CALIFORNIA 

ONE  of  my  longest  stops  was  at  a  private  house 
well  out  in  a  suburban  district  of  Los  Angeles. 
From  the  window  of  my  room  I  looked  forth 
on  a  world  luxuriantly  green  and  brightened  with 
blossoms  in  marvelous  profusion.  To  add  to  the 
pleasure  of  all  this,  birds  were  plentiful,  and,  in  partic- 
ular, there  was  'a  mocking-bird  that  had  a  habit  of 
perching  not  far  away  and  piping  and  trilling  with  rare 
ardor  and  eloquence.  Several  palms,  a  magnolia  and 
some  camphor  trees  grew  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
behind  it  were  orange,  fig,  peach  and  other  fruit  trees. 
The  entire  region  was  much  like  a  park,  so  carefully 
were  the  orchards  kept,  and  so  abounding  were  the 
cultivated  flowers  and  shrubs.  The  surroundings  of 
the  finer  dwellings  were  little  short  of  perfection,  and 
there  was  never  any  rawness  due  to  waiting  for  nature 
to  give  them  a  proper  setting,  even  about  the  newer 
homes.  Things  grow  so  quickly  and  respond  so  readily 
to  man's  training  that  a  home  almost  at  once  nestles  in 

79 


80       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

flowers  and  vines  and  foliage  that  give  it  repose  and 
charm. 

The  story  goes  that  the  climate  is  so  favoring  you 
can  plant  toothpicks  one  day,  and  the  next  morning 
find  them  grown  into  tall  trees  that  can  be  cut  and  sold 
for  telegraph  poles.  In  sober  fact,  the  nearest  approach 
to  this  is  the  growth  made  by  the  blue  gum,  a  species  of 
eucalyptus.  Aside  from  fruit  trees,  no  trees  in  Southern 
California  are  so  conspicuous  and  abundant.  A  blue 
gum  will  send  up  a  shoot  twenty  feet  tall  in  a  twelve- 
month; and  in  Australia,  its  home  land,  it  attains  a 
mature  height  of  three  hundred  feet.  The  Californians 
usually  cut  their  blue  gums  down  every  few  years,  and 
sprouts  are  allowed  to  start  from  the  stump.  "Our 
trees  here  don't  know  when  they  are  dead,"  I  was 
informed;  "for  no  matter  how  little  is  left  when  the 
blue  gums  are  chopped  off  they  will  at  once  take  a 
new  start  as  vigorous  as  ever.  Why,  a  small  patch  of 
blue  gums  will  keep  a  family  in  wood." 

Throughout  California,  no  matter  where  one  wanders, 
mountains  are  always  in  sight  glorifying  every  landscape. 
Where  I  then  was  I  could  see  a  series  of  heights  close 
at  hand,  lofty  and  rugged.  During  the  cooler  months 
the  clouds  love  to  linger  about  their  summits  and  they 
often  whiten  over  with  snow;  but  no  snow  falls  in  the 
vale,  though  there  are  sometimes  touches  of  frost. 
Things    continue    green    and    blossoms    are    profuse 


Spring  in  Southern  California  8 1 

throughout  the  winter,  and  there  is  a  gradual  increase 
of  color  and  fresh  growth  until  high  tide  is  reached  in 
April.  Then  water  is  no  longer  so  abundant,  and 
presently  the  flowers  go  to  seed  and  the  grass  withers, 
and  except  where  there  is  irrigation  the  face  of  the 
earth  is  sere  and  sober.  Thus  it  remains  till  late  autumn 
when  the  reviving  showers  awaken  the  dull  fields  and 
roadsides  and  pastures  to  life. 

The  summer  heat  is  at  times  excessive;  yet  it  is  a 
dry  heat  that  does  not  carry  with  it  a  sweltering  dis- 
comfort. What  is  far  worse  are  the  dust  storms.  In 
some  sections  these  are  frequent,  and  they  are  experi- 
enced occasionally  even  in  Los  Angeles.  The  dust  fills 
the  air  like  a  fog  and  penetrates  the  houses  and  covers 
everything.  Moreover,  it  irritates  the  throat  and  makes 
one  constantly  thirsty.  Out  on  the  desert,  the  wind, 
besides  raising  the  dust,  whirls  the  sand  through  the  air, 
and  sand-drifts  gather  in  the  lee  of  all  obstructions. 
One  man  told  me  about  an  experience  of  his  in  a  desert 
sand-storm  in  a  top  buggy.  "The  dusty  wind  had  been 
blowing  all  day  and  night,"  said  he,  "and  then  let  up. 
I'd  been  waiting  for  that  and  I  started,  but  it  had  only  quit 
to  get  a  fresh  hold  and  it  soon  blowed  like  the  mischief 
again.  The  sand  cut  my  face  and  the  alkali  in  it  made 
the  tears  run.  Pretty  soon  my  buggy  blew  over;  but 
I  got  it  right  side  up  again  and  went  on.  A  little  farther 
along  it  capsized  once  more,  and  this  time  the  top  blew 


82       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

off  and  went  bounding  away  out  of  sight.  The  storm 
was  so  blinding  I  couldn't  see  a  thing  ten  feet  distant, 
and  I'd  been  troubled  a  good  deal  to  keep  in  the  road 
because  the  wind  was  so  fierce  it  would  pull  on  the  reins 
and  get  the  horse  out  of  the  beaten  track.  So  in  making 
a  new  start  I  just  tied  the  reins  to  the  harness.  Then 
I  got  into  my  wrecked  buggy  and  let  the  horse  find  its 
own  way  home." 

Evidently  the  California  summer  is  not  in  some 
respects  all  it  might  be,  and  the  winter  also  has  its 
failings,  though  of  a  different  sort.  In  a  Chicago  rail- 
way station,  on  my  way  from  the  East,  I  overheard  an 
Ohio  woman  who  was  returning  from  a  visit  to  the 
Pacific  Coast  discoursing  on  its  weather  to  a  chance 
acquaintance.  Her  voice  was  hoarse  with  a  severe  cold. 
"I've  never  seen  worse  fog  anywhere,"  said  she;  "and 
the  tourists  were  all  kicking  about  it.  I  wasn't  com- 
fortably warm  half  the  time,  and  I  had  to  wear  jis  as 
heavy  furs  as  at  home.  The  houses  ain't  fixed  to  heat. 
They  don't  have  stoves  except  in  their  kitchens.  So 
you  can  only  sit  around  and  shiver.  Even  in  summer 
the  nights  are  chilly,  no  matter  how  hot  the  day  has 
been.  You  have  to  be  careful  not  to  let  in  too  much 
of  that  night  air  or  you'll  ketch  your  death  of  cold.  I've 
never  minded  the  winter  in  Ohio  half  as  much  as  I  did 
this  winter  out  there.  Then,  too,  I've  always  been 
used  to  livin'  at  home,  and  though  the  grub  was  good 


Spring  in  Southern  California  83 

I  got  tired  of  hotel  cookin'.  Of  course,  there's  wonder- 
ful things  to  see,  and  all  that,  and  I  was  enjoying 
myself  pretty  well  until  I  struck  Los  Angeles  where  I 
got  this  awful  cold.  I  didn't  meet  any  people  there 
but  jis  had  colds,  and  I  heard  a  lot  of  tourists  sayin' 
they  wouldn't  live  there  if  you'd  give  'em  the  finest  house 
in  the  city.  It  seemed  like  I  was  never  goin'  to  get  over 
my  cold,  and  I  said,  'Ohio  is  good  enough  for  me.  I 
can  die  as  well  there  as  out  here;'  and  now  that  I'm  most 
back  I'm  so  glad  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

No  doubt  her  experience  was  in  some  respects  ab- 
normal. The  season  was  an  unusually  wet  one,  and  I 
witnessed  several  astonishing  downpours  when  torrents 
brown  with  sediment  flowed  in  every  roadside  gutter, 
and  some  of  the  streets  were  a-wash  from  curb  to  curb. 
The  worst  flooded  ones  could  only  be  crossed  by  wading 
in  water  a  foot  or  more  deep.  Often  boards  or  pieces  of 
timber  were  laid  across  the  gutter  streams  to  serve  as 
makeshift  bridges. 

The  uncommon  wetness  of  the  season  was  attributed 
by  some  people  to  the  magic  of  a  professional  rain- 
maker. The  previous  year  had  been  dry,  and  he  con- 
tracted to  bring  rain  by  a  certain  date.  Then  he  betook 
himself  to  a  mountain-top;  but  what  mysterious  rites 
he  performed  in  his  efforts  to  produce  rain  no  one  knows. 
The  desired  result  failed  to  materialize  until  two  days 
after  the  time  set,  and  for  this  reason  payment  was 


84       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

refused.  The  rainmaker,  however,  had  his  revenge  by 
drenching  the  country  at  frequent  intervals,  and  in 
some  sections  there  were  disastrous  floods.  He  declared 
he  would  not  desist  until  he  was  paid.  Thus  urged,  his 
employers  finally  turned  over  the  money,  and  the 
torrential  rains  more  or  less  promptly  ceased. 

Probably  the  most  delightful  excursion  that  can  be 
made  from  Los  Angeles  is  to  the  island  of  Santa  Cata- 
lina,  twenty-five  miles  off  the  coast.  When  first  dis- 
covered the  island  was  thickly  populated  by  savages,  and 
later  it  was  frequented  by  pirates  who  preyed  on  the  rich 
galleons  in  the  Philippine  trade.  Now  it  is  a  pleasure 
resort  that  attracts  multitudes  of  visitors,  and  its  single 
village  is  a  crowded  settlement  of  hotels  and  shops  and 
numerous  little  cottages  huddled  in  a  narrow  valley 
basin.  Thence  you  look  forth  on  a  crescent  beach 
with  wave-torn  bluffs  on  either  side  reaching  out  into 
the  sea.  In  all  its  length  of  twenty  miles  and  its  width 
of  from  two  to  nine,  the  island  is  a  chaos  of  steep  hills  and 
mountains,  furrowed  with  deep  canyons  and  having 
many  rugged  precipices.  The  loftiest  height  is  Black 
Jack  which  rises  twenty-five  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea  level.  Most  of  the  slopes  are  grassed  over,  and 
thousands  of  sheep  find  pasturage  on  them.  You  see 
the  paths  of  the  grazing  flocks  everywhere  winding 
along  the  inclines,  and  often  see  the  sheep  themselves 
or  hear  their  bleating.     Off  in  the  middle  of  the  island 


<o 


^ 


b-i 


1 


Spring  in  Southern  California  85 

is  a  farmhouse  where  the  caretakers  of  the  flocks  live, 
but  otherwise  human  life  is  confined  to  the  neighborhood 
of  the  village  of  the  pleasure-seekers. 

No  matter  whither  I  wandered  I  found  a  constant 
succession  of  glens  and  ridges  clothed  with  scattered 
bushes  and  thorny  clumps  of  cacti,  and  one  can  judge 
of  the  country  inland  by  the  fact  that  two  young  men 
who  had  lived  in  Santa  Catalina  for  years  recently 
lost  themselves  while  coming  from  the  west  shore  eight 
miles  distant.  A  fog  bewildered  them,  and  one  gave 
up  with  heart  trouble  or  whiskey,  and  the  other  went 
on  alone.  Night  came,  and  the  wanderer  stumbled 
about  in  the  darkness  all  to  no  purpose.  It  was  after- 
noon of  the  next  day  when  he  reached  the  village. 
Then  search  parties  started  to  find  his  companion,  but 
he  was  not  where  he  had  been  left,  and  it  was  two  days 
later,  that  they  came  across  him  in  a  remote  part  of  the 
island  trying  to  find  his  way  back  to  civilization. 

The  showers  that  every  now  and  then  trailed  over  the 
uplands  and  down  into  the  vales  were  full  of  vague 
mystery.  There  was  mystery  too  in  the  gray  old  ocean 
always  pounding  along  the  shore,  and  in  the  drift  of 
sunlight  and  shadow  across  its  sober  expanse.  I  had 
one  experience  that  seemed  to  argue  that  this  poetic 
quality  as  evinced  by  nature  had  a  marked  influence 
on  the  island  dwellers  and  made  them  poetic  also. 
The  first  night  at  my  hotel  I  was  awakened  early  in  the 


86       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

morning  by  voices  under  my  room.  Evidently  the  floor 
was  thin  and  I  was  over  the  dining  room.  A  waiter 
was  giving  his  comrades  some  advice  and  it  was  in 
rhyme,  as  follows: 

"Mary  Ann  was  very  good; 
She  always  did  the  best  she  could. 
Now  children  be  like  Mary  Ann, 
And  do  the  very  best  you  can." 

A  mile  or  two  back  from  the  village  up  a  canyon 
lived  an  old  hermit  who  had  a  chicken  ranch.  Any 
farm  or  country  home  with  land  attached,  even  if  there 
is  no  more  than  a  garden  patch,  is  a  "ranch"  in  Cali- 
fornia. I  called  on  the  hermit  one  day.  His  house  was 
of  the  shanty  order  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  plot  of 
ground  which  he  had  palisaded  with  a  lath  fence  against 
his  marauding  fowls.  Besides  chickens  he  had  hundreds 
of  pigeons  and  a  few  ducks  and  turkeys.  For  closer 
companionship  he  kept  a  couple  of  handsome  collies, 
and  when  the  sheep  from  the  hills  came  down  around 
his  place,  the  dogs  drove  them  back. 

"  I've  been  on  Santa  Catalina  twenty  years,"  said  he. 
"It  was  just  beginnin'  to  be  a  resort  when  I  got  here. 
There  was  one  small  hotel  and  a  few  boarding  houses, 
and  often  more  people  would  come  than  they  could 
accommodate.  Then  a  good  many  would  have  to 
sleep  on  the  beach.  Our  summer  weather  is  all  right 
so  they  didn't  suffer  from  damp  or  cold;    but  they  did 


(lomr  tides 


Spring  in  Southern  California  87 

sometimes  get  into  trouble  with  the  sand  fleas.  We 
got  fleas  here  pretty  near  as  big  as  a  grain  of  wheat, 
you  bet!" 

The  hermit  had  a  number  of  flourishing  fig  and  peach 
trees,  and  was  starting  some  grapevines.  I  noticed 
several  rank-growing  plants  I  thought  looked  like 
tobacco.  "That's  what  they  are,"  said  he.  "One  day 
an  Irishman  from  Los  Angeles  called  on  me  and  he 
saw  a  chicken  pickin'  at  itself,  and  he  caught  it  and 
looked  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  He  found  some 
mites,  and  he  says,  'What  little  tej'ous  things  are  these  ?' 

"  I  told  him,  and  said  I  could  get  rid  of  them  if  I  had 
some  tobacco  leaves.  Well,  the  next  time  he  come  he 
brought  a  packet  of  tobacco  seed,  and  he  said,  'You 
raise  some  tobacco  and  you  use  it  on  your  chickens. 
If  you  don't  I'll  kill  you.' 

"  It  grows  very  good  here.  If  you  have  water  you 
can  grow  most  anything  in  this  soil  except  greenbacks. 
Would  you  like  to  see  our  island  foxes  ?  They're  a 
sort  you  don't  find  on  the  mainland.  I  caught  one  last 
night  in  that  box  over  there.  I've  heared  him  a-howlin' 
around  for  a  week,  and  he  got  three  chickens  o'  mine. 
These  foxes  make  nice  pets  and  I  s'pose  I've  caught  as 
many  as  four  hundred  and  sold  them  at  a  dollar  apiece." 

We  went  to  the  box,  and  he  tilted  it  up  so  that  I  could 
see  the  pretty  creature  within — evidently  a  fox,  but  only 
half  the  mainland  size.     I  believe  the  island  contains 


88       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

certain  other  creatures  with  a  peculiar  individuality, 
but  it  is  especially  famous  for  the  fish  in  the  surrounding 
sea.  Here  is  found  the  leaping  tuna,  the  most  active 
game  fish  in  the  world.  It  is  caught  with  a  rod  and  line, 
but  the  line  must  be  many  hundreds  of  feet  long,  and 
the  fish  will  tow  the  boat  at  racehorse  speed  from  one 
to  twenty  miles  before  it  is  captured.  In  weight  the 
tuna  sometimes  exceeds  two  hundred  pounds. 

Nothing  afforded  me  quite  so  much  pleasure  while  I 
was  at  the  island  as  a  trip  in  one  of  the  glass-bottomed 
boats.  The  boat  could  have  carried  a  score,  but  two 
young  men  in  addition  to  myself  were  the  only  passen- 
gers this  time.  There  was  a  continuous  cushioned 
seat  at  the  sides  and  stern,  and  the  oarsman  sat  in  the 
prow.  We  had  an  awning  overhead,  and  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  were  three  heavy  plates  of  glass  about 
eighteen  inches  by  three  feet,  boxed  in  at  the  sides. 
The  harbor  water  was  somewhat  roiled,  but  as  soon 
as  we  got  to  the  cliffs  jutting  seaward  we  looked  down 
into  fairyland.  Even  when  the  depth  was  fully  fifty 
feet  there  was  scarcely  any  obscurity,  and  the  sunbeams 
flickered  down  almost  as  through  the  air  onto  the  gray 
rocks  and  the  wafting,  many-hued  sea-plants  and 
the  numerous  finny  inhabitants.  How  calm  every- 
thing down  there  seemed!  and  with  what  lazy  pleasure 
the  fish  moved  about  in  their  wonder-world!  They 
were   marvelously   colored — red    and    blue,    silver    and 


Spring  in  Southern  California  89 

brown,  striped  and  spotted;  and  some  were  pallid 
little  sardines  just  hatched,  and  others  would  weigh 
four  or  five  pounds. 

My  fellow  voyagers  almost  exhausted  themselves  in 
their  expressions  of  delight.  "Well,  sir,"  one  would 
cry,  "this  is  the  finest  sight  I've  ever  seen  in  my  life." 

Then  the  other  would  break  in  with,  "Look  at  this 
gold  fish!  Ain't  he  a  pippin!  and  Tom,  here's  a  jelly 
fish  right  under  the  glass.    Gee!   ain't  that  pretty?" 

"Dick,  get  onto  this!"  exclaims  Tom.  "Do  you  see 
the  fish  with  spots  on  its  back  like  lamps  ?" 

"That's  the  electric  fish,"  explained  the  oarsman, 
"  and  in  the  dark  those  spots  light  up  the  water.  Now 
we  are  going  over  a  lot  of  seaweed — ribbons  and  lace  and 
such.  It's  the  wet  drygoods  of  the  ocean,  and  there's 
enough  right  in  sight  to  stock  a  millinery  store." 

"I  s'pose  you  can  catch  fish  here  at  the  island  any 
old  place,"  remarked  Tom.  "My!  it  looks  so  nice 
down  in  there  it  would  just  suit  me  to  camp  under 
water  right  here  for  a  while." 

"Those  gold  fish  take  my  eye,"  declared  Dick. 
"I  would  certainly  like  to  reach  down  and  grab  a 
couple." 

"See  that  seaweed  with  the  violet-colored  tips,"  said 
Tom.  "I  tell  you  that's  pretty." 

"That  was  nice  all  right,"  agreed  Dick;    "but  look 


90       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

at  this  big  purple  shell  lying  on  the  bottom.     I  wish  I 
had  it." 

Just  then  a  little  rowboat  approached,  in  which  were 
two  fellows  in  bathing  suits,  and  our  oarsman  spoke  to 
Dick  and  said,  "If  you  want  that  shell  one  of  those 
chaps  will  go  down  and  get  it  for  a  quarter." 

So  the  other  boat  was  hailed  and  as  soon  as  the  diver 
had  leaned  over  into  our  craft  to  take  a  look  through 
the  glass  and  locate  the  shell,  down  he  went,  and  we 
could  see  him  swimming  like  a  frog  straight  for  it.  When 
he  came  up  he  gave  a  rap  on  the  glass  beneath  us,  and 
then  he  presented  the  shell,  climbed  into  his  boat  and 
put  an  old  coat  about  his  shoulders.  "There's  a 
number  of  such  divers  here,"  said  our  rower  as  we 
moved  away,  "and  they  make  big  money — five,  ten 
and  twenty  dollars  a  day;  but  they  don't  live  long.  If 
they  ketch  a  cold  it  goes  right  to  their  lungs." 

From  Santa  Catalina  I  returned  to  the  mainland  and 
went  far  back  from  the  coast  to  a  small  isolated  village. 
I  arrived  one  warm  noontide.  A  cow  was  wandering 
about  the  wide  unshadowed  main  street,  a  few  teams 
were  hitched  to  wayside  posts  before  the  half  dozen 
stores  and  saloons,  and  a  rooster  was  scratching  over 
a  gutter  rubbish  heap.  At  one  end  of  the  street  was  a 
patch  of  grass  and  a  group  of  trees,  and  here  a  pros- 
pector's outfit  had  stopped.  The  outfit  consisted  of  a 
canvas-topped  wagon  loaded  with  supplies  and  drawn 


Spring  in  Southern  California  91 

by  four  mules  which  were  eating  oats  from  their  nose 
bags.  On  either  side  of  the  vehicle  was  a  water  barrel, 
and  on  behind  a  sheet-iron  stove  and  a  bale  of  hay. 
The  proprietors  were  three  men  enroute  for  Death 
Valley,  and  they  were  prepared  to  spend  a  year  search- 
ing for  wealth  in  that  desert  region. 

On  the  rear  borders  of  the  hamlet  stood  a  tiny  church 
with  a  barbed-wire  fence  around  it.  A  preacher  came 
from  somewhere  and  held  service  every  other  Sunday. 
I  was  told  that  only  two  men  in  the  place  were  church- 
goers and  that  the  minister  considered  it  was  a  big  day 
if  he  had  an  audience  of  ten.  Beyond  the  church  were 
park-like  pastures  with  frequent  great  oaks  just  putting 
forth  their  new  foliage.  But  as  a  whole  the  surround- 
ings were  either  level  plains  growing  in  their  better 
parts  to  wheat  and  barley,  or  were  low  parched  hills 
thinly  covered  with  sagebrush  and  mesquite. 

The  village  was  on  the  Newhall  Ranch,  which  in- 
cludes nearly  fifty  thousand  acres.  When  "old  man 
Newhall"  was  alive  all  the  suitable  land  was  in  wheat, 
and  at  the  time  of  harvest  he  often  shipped  several 
trainloads  in  a  day,  while  now  it  is  something  notable 
to  fill  half  a  dozen  cars  in  that  time.  The  village  was 
a  busy  place  then,  for  not  only  were  two  or  three  score 
men  employed  on  the  ranch,  but  twice  as  many  more 
were  working  some  neighboring  oil  wells,  now  aban- 
doned.    A  lanky  long-haired  youth  who  had  charge  of 


92       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

one  of  the  drink  resorts  told  me  the  history  of  the  place 
while  he  sat  on  a  battered  and  initial-carved  settee  in 
front  of  his  saloon  and  contemplatively  smoked  a  cigaret. 

"Dad  come  here  twenty  odd  years  ago,"  he  said, 
"  and  he's  seen  this  town  drop  four  times  and  the  business 
go  dead.  Well,  things  are  not  so  bad  just  now  as  they 
might  be.  We  get  the  trade  from  the  ranches  for  ten  to 
thirty  miles  around,  and  they've  been  makin'  some- 
thin'  the  last  few  years  and  have  money  to  spend.  One 
while  we  lived  in  Los  Angeles.  That's  quite  a  burg 
and  gettin'  bigger  all  the  time.  I  used  to  could  say 
nobody  could  lose  me  in  Los  Angeles,  but  I  don't  hardly 
know  where  I'm  at  in  some  parts  now." 

When  I  left  the  village  to  resume  my  journeyings  it 
so  happened  that  I  was  stranded  for  several  hours  at 
a  railway  junction,  a  few  miles  distant,  where  I  had  to 
stay  till  midnight  before  I  could  get  a  train.  One 
attraction  of  the  waiting-room  was  a  gambling-machine. 
You  put  a  nickel  in  a  slot,  turned  a  crank  and  something 
went  buzz  inside,  and  possibly  a  sum  varying  from  ten 
cents  to  two  dollars  dropped  out  down  below.  I  saw  a 
number  of  fellows  try  it,  and  two  of  them  used  up  a 
quarter  each  in  their  efforts,  but  the  machine  simply 
kept  what  they  dropped  in  and  gave  back  no  prizes. 
The  profits  of  the  machine,  according  to  the  man  in 
charge  of  the  station  lunch  counter,  were  about  a  dollar 
a  day.     He  said  the  thing  was  against  the  law  and 


Spring  in  Southern  California  93 

would  not  be  allowed  in  the  cities,  but  in  small  places 
the  law  was  not  enforced. 

The  lunch  man  and  a  friend  had  a  long  discussion 
about  the  merits  of  various  systems  of  gambling — cards, 
craps,  roulette  and  faro  bank,  and  attempted  to  decide 
which  was  "the  fairest  game  in  the  bunch."  "I've 
tried  them  all,"  said  the  friend.  "Yes,  I've  monkeyed 
around  the  gambling  tables  a  good  deal.  I  am  natu- 
rally lucky,  too,  and  when  I  win,  I  win  right  quick." 

Nevertheless  he  was  at  present  so  hard  up  he  was 
planning  to  beat  his  way  on  a  frieght  to  some  land  of 
promise  farther  on.  He  went  out,  and  the  lunch  man 
turned  to  me  and  said,  "There  ain't  much  use  of 
playin'  against  a  professional  gambler.  He  ain't 
settin'  there  for  his  health,  and  he's  bound  to  win 
oftener'n  you  are.  But  a  feller  knockin'  about  always 
sees  ways  to  make  a  lot  of  money  if  he  only  had  a  little 
pile.  It  takes  too  long  and  requires  too  much  effort  to 
earn  and  save  it.  So  he  tries  gambling;  and  yet  if 
he  has  luck  he  always  wants  more  money  than  he  has 
won,  and  he  won't  stop  until  he  loses  it  all. 

"Some  of  the  worst  gambling  places  are  over  in 
Arizona.  I  went  into  one  town  there  with  fifty  bucks 
(dollars)  in  my  pocket  and  wearin'  a  twenty-eight 
dollar  suit  and  a  new  overcoat  and  shoes,  and  with  a 
four-dollar  grip  in  my  hand.  But  in  three  weeks  I 
come  away  a  tramp.     Now  I've  made  up  my  mind  to 


94       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

do  different,"  said  he  as  he  prepared  a  cup  of  coffee 
for  himself.  "I  ain't  touched  my  booze  for  a  month, 
and  if  I  can  save  seventy-five  dollars  I'm  goin'  to  start 
for  New  England  where  I  come  from.  I  can  have 
more  fun  with  five  dollars  in  Boston  than  I  can  with  a 
hundred  dollars  in  these  cities  out  here." 

Most  likely  he  would  fail  in  his  intention.  The  Far 
West  is  full  of  human  driftwood.  Men  who  have  any 
capacity  and  industry  easily  get  profitable  jobs,  but  a 
considerable  proportion  of  such  men  are  constantly 
roving  to  new  territory,  and  money  doesn't  stick  to  them. 

My  midnight  train  carried  me  to  the  remarkably 
fertile  country  that  extends  for  nearly  a  hundred  miles 
east  of  Los  Angeles.  There  you  find  an  endless  succes- 
sion of  orange,  lemon,  apricot,  peach  and  other  fruit 
orchards.  Back  a  little  from  the  route  I  took  through 
this  wonderland,  the  mountains  frowned  in  purple 
gloom  from  beneath  a  capping  of  foggy  clouds,  and 
wherever  a  canyon  opened  from  the  heights  it  had  shot 
out  over  the  levels  a  wide  waste  of  sand  and  stones  that 
was  half  overgrown  with  brush.  Such  land  was  fur- 
rowed with  water-courses  that  were  perfectly  dry  except 
just  after  storms.  However,  dry  water-courses  are  not 
confined  in  California  to  small  streams.  There  is  a 
saying  that  the  rivers  are  "  bottom  upward."  That  is, 
the  channel  is  usually  a  waste  of  sand,  but  if  you  dig 
down  deep  enough  you  are  pretty  sure  to  find  a  seepage 


Spring  in  Southern  California  95 

of  water.  After  a  storm  the  dry  channels  are  suddenly 
filled  with  rushing  torrents  that  transform  the  lowlands 
to  shallow  ponds,  and  marshes  of  mire. 

In  the  region  where  I  then  was  oranges  grow  to  per- 
fection, but  they  are  raised  with  scarcely  less  success 
in  the  upper  Sacramento  valley  over  five  hundred  miles 
to  the  north.  Heat  and  cold  on  the  coast  are  a  matter 
of  altitude,  not  latitude,  and  the  wildflowers  are  a-bloom 
among  the  foothills  and  the  valleys  in  midwinter 
throughout  the  entire  length  of  the  state.  What  wonder 
that  California  is  the  great  orange  center  of  the  world! 

With  proper  care  the  trees  grow  very  rapidly.  They 
are  vigorous  and  long-lived.  For  a  hundred  years  they 
will  continue  to  bear,  and  an  instance  is  on  record  in 
Italy  of  an  orange  tree  that  survived  to  the  age  of  four 
centuries.  Perhaps  no  other  tree  blossoms  more  regu- 
larly and  generously,  and  though  sometimes  a  cold 
wave  does  serious  local  harm,  a  general  failure  of  the 
crop  is  unknown.  The  trees  require  little  or  no  pruning 
back,  but  the  branches  have  to  be  thinned  out  some- 
what. To  combat  the  scale  pests  a  good  many  owners 
resort  to  spraying,  but  the  most  effective  way  is  to 
fumigate.  The  leading  varieties  of  trees  only  grow 
about  ten  feet  high  and  are  very  compact  with  branches 
trailing  on  the  ground.  Even  the  larger  species  seldom 
attain  over  fifteen  feet,  so  that  a  tent  can  be  put  over  a 
tree  and  the  fumigating  done  very  thoroughly.     Tents 


96       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

enough  are  used  to  cover  a  row,  and  when  that  row  has 
been  treated  they  are  shifted  to  the  next.  It  is  night 
work,  for  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the  fumes  combined 
would  injure  the  foliage. 

In  the  early  spring  one  finds  much  of  the  land  among 
the  orange  groves  hidden  by  rank  weeds,  and  by  peas 
purposely  grown  during  the  winter  and  later  ploughed 
under  to  serve  as  a  fertilizer  and  to  give  the  soil  humus. 
After  the  ploughing  the  land  is  kept  clean,  and  it  is  culti- 
vated many  times  in  the  months  following.  The  bare 
brown  earth  is  not  a  pleasing  setting  for  the  evergreen, 
glossy-foliaged  trees,  and  their  appeal  to  the  eye  is  also 
hurt  by  the  round,  stout  solidity  and  uniformity  of  shape 
of  the  trees  themselves. 

Picking  begins  in  time  to  ship  for  Thanksgiving  use, 
but  the  early  fruit  is  poor.  It  is  not  ripe,  and  in  order 
to  get  a  good  outer  color  some  of  it  has  to  be  treated 
to  a  few  days'  sweat.  This  turns  a  green  skin  to  the 
proper  tint,  though  the  inside  may  be  as  sour  as  a  lemon. 
The  picking  continues  until  May,  and  in  the  height  of 
the  season  you  can  buy  excellent  windfalls  from  peddlers 
on  the  town  streets  at  "ten  cents  a  bucket,"  and  the 
bucket  holds  about  eight  quarts. 

A  well-grown  orchard,  conveniently  located,  is 
commonly  priced  at  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand 
dollars  an  acre,  though  at  such  figures  the  native 
Californians,  if  they  give  you  a  confidential  opinion, 


Spring  in  Southern  California  97 

say  they  don't  see  how  any  money  can  be  made.  It  is 
better  to  sacrifice  something  on  location,  for  the  in- 
vestment will  be  decidedly  less.  There  is  great  ad- 
vantage to  a  prospective  purchaser  in  working  in  the 
country  a  year  or  two  in  order  to  get  acquainted  with 
the  climate,  the  soil  and  crops  and  methods  of  marketing. 
The  tenderfoot  usually  pays  high  for  the  place  he  buys, 
and  often  he  "comes  with  a  nice  little  pile  and  goes 
back  with  nothing."  Many  natives  make  a  business  of 
staying  on  a  place  for  a  while,  improving  it  and  then 
selling  at  a  fancy  valuation.  That  done,  they  buy  some 
other  ranch,  which  can  be  had  cheap,  and  repeat  the 
process. 

The  manipulations  that  one  hears  of  in  connection 
with  the  sale  of  land  in  the  coast  country  make  a  very 
curious  story.  The  real  estate  agents  are  persons  of  an 
optimistic  turn  of  mind,  with  a  marked  ability  to  tell 
fairy  tales.  I  heard  of  one  man  who  was  dissatisfied 
with  the  place  he  owned,  and  he  put  it  in  the  hands 
of  a  firm  of  agents,  to  sell  while  he  looked  up  another 
home  to  his  liking.  Shortly  afterward  he  saw  a  place 
advertised  by  these  agents  that  he  felt  from  the  description 
was  exactly  the  thing  he  wanted.  He  went  to  them, 
and  lo!    it  was  the  very  one  he  was  trying  to  sell. 

The  agents  are  all  eager  to  get  hold  of  prospective 
purchasers,  and  some  of  the  loiterers  at  the  station  are 
likely  to  be  acting  in  their  interest.     That  old  Kansas 


98       Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

farmer  you  see  chewing  tobacco  and  sitting  around  in 
the  waiting  room  is  wintering  in  the  vicinity,  and  he  is 
making  a  little  money  by  keeping  on  the  lookout  for 
new  arrivals,  getting  acquainted  with  them,  and  if  they 
want  to  buy  land  he  steers  them  to  some  real  estate 
firm  with  which  he  has  an  understanding. 

Everybody  trades  in  land  "on  the  side,"  even  cheap 
clerks  and  servant  girls.  They  can  get  lots  for  one 
dollar  down  and  a  dollar  a  week.  But  most  of  the 
small  speculators  pay  in  cash  one-fourth  of  the  price  and 
agree  to  pay  the  other  quarters  at  six  month  intervals. 
They  really  never  intend  to  make  the  second  payment, 
but  expect  the  land  to  advance  in  value  so  they  can  sell 
out  at  a  good  profit  before  the  six  months  expire.  In 
short,  they  seldom  buy  because  they  want  the  property 
for  themselves,  but  simply  to  await  some  bigger  "  sucker" 
who  will  take  it  off  their  hands  at  an  advance.  With 
prices  going  up  the  investors  generally  make  money. 
On  the  other  hand  a  drop  in  values  finds  a  vast  number 
of  obligations  that  cannot  be  taken  care  of.  The 
speculators  are  forced  to  sell  for  what  they  can  get, 
which  makes  prices  tumble  still  worse  and  there  is  a 
general  crash.  The  preceding  inflation  has  often  been 
so  great  that  it  is  difficult  to  estimate  what  a  person  has 
really  dropped.  "I  have  lost  fifty  thousand  dollars," 
said  one  investor,  "and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  five  hun- 
dred dollars  of  the  sum  v$as  good  money." 


Schoolgirls 


Spring  in  Southern  California  99 

One  real  estate  agent  who  talked  to  me  with  unusual 
frankness  was  a  man  who  had  just  retired  from  the 
business  after  a  ten  months'  experience.  He  had 
come  from  South  Dakota  and  had  made  his  home  in  a 
growing  coast  city  often  thousand  inhabitants.  "  I  have 
been  successful,"  said  he,  "but  my  Godfrey!  I  didn't 
feel  right.  You  can't  tell  the  whole  truth  and  make 
any  sales.  Southern  California  is  a  good  place  to  spend 
money  and  a  poor  place  to  make  it.  For  some  people 
it's  healthy,  but  for  me  the  winters  are  too  damp  and 
chilly;  and  yet  the  natives  say  you  don't  need  no  fire. 
The  fact  is,  fuel  is  expensive  and  most  people  can't 
afford  it.  There's  many  a  family  makes  one  cord  of 
wood  last  a  whole  year;  but  I  burned  just  as  much  as 
we  did  at  home  in  the  East. 

"A  considerable  number  of  widows  lived  in  the  town 
where  I  was.  When  a  woman  had  a  little  money  left 
at  her  husband's  death  she'd  buy  or  build  a  nice-looking 
house,  but  if  you  examined  it  you'd  find  it  was  put  up 
very  slight  and  cheap.  Outside  there'd  be  clapboards 
nailed  right  to  the  studding,  and  inside  cheese  cloth  over 
lath,  and  wall  paper  pasted  on  the  cloth.  The  place  was 
a  summer  resort,  and  for  three  or  four  months  the  lone 
woman  with  a  house  would  rent  her  dwelling  and  live 
herself  in  a  tent  or  shed  behind  it.  The  money  she 
received  had  to  support  her  the  year  through.  So  her 
food  was  mostly  bread  and  a  little  fish  and  tea,  with 


ioo     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

now  and  then  five  cents  worth  of  warm  soup  bought  at  a 
restaurant.  All  the  time  she'd  put  on  the  appearance 
of  being  very  well  off,  though  in  reality  she  was  poorer 
than  Job's  turkey. 

"  People  in  the  East  think  that  the  climate  in  California 
is  so  favorable  that  they  can  pay  any  price  for  a  ranch 
and  make  money  on  whatever  they  choose  to  go  into, 
and  that  there'll  be  no  need  of  their  doing  much  only 
to  let  things  grow.  The  real  estate  agents  encourage 
that  notion.  They're  the  gol-darndest  lot  I  ever  saw. 
They  can't  talk  reasonable,  and  they  never  quit  their 
everlasting  blowing.  You'd  think  they  were  fairly 
crazy  about  this  country.  It  will  almost  make  a  man 
who  knows  the  situation  vomit,  the  way  they  talk. 
Murderation,  they've  got  dodges  to  beat  any  Eastern 
man  that  ever  lived.  They  always  like  to  take  a  possible 
customer  to  ride  to  show  him  around.  Crowd  him  into 
your  rig  some  way,  and  then  your  sale  is  half  made. 
Otherwise,  a  rival  will  take  the  drive  with  him  and  your 
chance  in  that  quarter  is  gone.  It  isn't  the  habit  to 
exhibit  any  anxiety  to  sell.  You  point  out  this  and  that 
piece  of  property  and  talk  about  what  it  is  suited  for 
and  what  its  future  value  will  probably  be,  and  you're 
pretty  sure  to  get  your  man  interested. 

"Everybody  deals  in  real  estate,  ministers  and  all. 
Some  of  the  ministers  get  so  tangled  up  they  have  to 
leave  their  pulpits.     You  have  no  idee  of  the  state  of 


^ 


Spring  in  Southern  California  101 

things.  I  know  one  Methodist  minister  who  has  done 
particularly  well.  When  he  notices  a  new  man  in  his 
congregation  he  of  course  takes  pains  to  shake  hands 
and  welcome  him,  and  then  he  asks  if  he  is  going  to 
settle.  If  the  man  says,  'Yes,'  the  minister  mentions 
that  while  he  is  not  in  the  real  estate  business  he  knows 
of  various  pieces  of  property  for  sale  and  would  be  glad 
to  render  any  assistance  he  could.  You  see,  the  mem- 
bers of  his  flock  place  whatever  piece  of  land  they  want 
to  dispose  of  in  his  hands,  and  he  lists  it  and  sells  it  on 
a  per  cent  the  same  as  any  other  agent.  But  he  is 
supposed  by  the  purchaser  to  be  disinterested,  and  he 
talks  with  the  stranger's  family,  holds  prayers  with  them 
and  keeps  them  right  under  his  thumb.  You  can't 
never  persuade  the  preacher's  man  away.  He's  got  a 
dead  sure  thing,  and  by  and  by  the  sale  is  made  and  the 
rest  of  us  say,  'The  parson  has  landed  another  man  all 
right.' 

"Then  there's  a  kind  of  agent  who  has  no  office  or 
no  nothing.  He  keeps  watch  of  the  streets.  When  he 
sees  strangers  standing  around  in  the  sun  trying  to  get 
warm  he  happens  up  to  'em  and  says,  '  Kind  o'  cold 
this  morning.' 

"That  leads  to  talk,  and  if  he  finds  they  have  some 
notion  of  buying  property  he  says,  'Well,  I  ain't  got  no 
property  to  sell,  myself,  but  there's  a  friend  of  mine 
has  just  about  what  you're  lookin'  for,  and  I'd  be  glad 
to  take  you  around  to  see  it.' 


102     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"  Darned  if  he  ain't  about  the  best  man  in  town,  next 
to  the  preacher,  to  make  sales!  The  strangers  perhaps 
wouldn't  go  in  the  door  of  a  real  estate  office,  but  they 
buy  of  him  because  they  think  he  has  no  money  interest 
in  making  the  sale.  They  may  even  brag  afterward 
to  the  real  estate  men  who  have  offices,  and  say,  'We 
bought  through  him  because  we  didn't  want  to  pay  you 
fellers  a  commission.' 

"Another  way  to  force  sales  is  to  employ  what  they 
call  a  'striker.'  Suppose  you  are  trying  to  sell  a  ranch. 
The  striker  comes  in  while  you  are  talking  with  your 
customer,  and  you  greet  him  as  a  person  who  owns  a 
ranch  close  by  the  one  you  have  for  sale.  You  ask 
him  what  he'll  take  for  his  place,  but  he  won't  sell. 
It's  too  profitable  a  property,  while  all  the  time  the 
striker  hasn't  any  place  at  all.  One  agent  in  the  city  I 
lived  in  was  working  to  dispose  of  a  tract  of  land  to 
two  ladies,  and  he  represented  it  would  have  a  very 
ready  sale  cut  up  for  house  lots,  though  it  was  miles 
beyond  where  the  city  was  at  all  built  up,  and  the  city 
wouldn't  grow  to  it  in  five  hundred  years.  To  speak  the 
exact  truth  it  wa'n't  worth  a  cuss.  But  he  tells  'em 
there's  three  or  four  parties  after  it  who  are  liable  to 
take  it  any  time,  and  they'd  better  not  delay.  So  they 
got  the  refusal  of  it  for  a  few  days.  Before  the  time 
was  up  a  striker  called  on  'em.  He'd  never  shaved  and 
had  whiskers   all   around   his   face  a   foot  long.     You 


Spring  in  Southern  California  103 

might  say  he  was  from  Missouri.  He  was  an  old 
innocent-lookin'  feller  and  made  out  he  was  deacon  of 
some  church,  and  he  says,  '1  understand  you've  bought 
that  property,  and  I  wanted  to  know  about  getting  a 
part  of  it.  I'm  willing  to  give  so  much  for  half  of  it;' 
and  he  named  a  price  bigger'n  they  were  goin'  to  pay 
for  the  whole. 

"They  were  all  in  a  flutter,  and  they  said  that 
arrangements  were  not  quite  complete,  but  the  property 
was  about  to  be  put  on  the  market  by  them  and  he 
should  have  first  chance.  Then  they  made  haste  to 
buy  and  were  the  most  tickled  women  in  the  world,  but 
the  man  with  the  whiskers  never  came  again.  That 
old  freak  would  land  every  victim  he  got  hold  of  and 
take  their  last  dollar.  I  was  sorry  for  those  women, 
but  women  do  make  the  awfullest  breaks  in  these  land 
trades.     They  go  into  speculation  head  over  heels. 

"One  day  a  stranger  called  at  my  office  and  told  me 
he'd  been  in  town  two  weeks  and  invested  five  thousand 
dollars.  The  tales  of  the  land  agents  had  made  him 
enthusiastic,  and  he  said,  'You  people  out  here  are 
slow.  You  stand  around  doing  nothing  and  let  us 
Eastern  people  make  all  the  money.' 

"He  was  sure  he  was  going  to  double  on  his  invest- 
ment within  a  year,  but  he  was  soon  ready  to  sell  out 
at  a  heavy  loss.  There's  no  use  talking — you  pick  up 
any  property  we  had  and  it  would   pretty  near  burn 


104     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

your  fingers.  That's  what  it  would.  But  new  people 
were  coming  in  on  every  train  looking  for  property  to 
invest  in;  and  the  papers  were  praising  it  up  all  the 
time,  so  that  hearing  of  prices  constantly  on  the  rise 
they'd  get  in  a  hurry  to  buy.  But  a  month  was  a  long 
time  for  a  place  to  be  out  of  the  market.  By  then  a 
man  was  pretty  sure  to  be  sick  of  his  bargain.  When  I 
made  a  sale  I  just  checked  it  with  a  pencil.  I  didn't 
cross  off"  the  item;  for  I'd  soon  have  had  my  book 
scratched  up  and  spoiled.  In  a  few  weeks  the  property 
was  bound  to  go  on  sale  again,  and  then  I'd  simply 
erase  the  check.  You  could  readily  tell  when  a  piece  of 
property  had  recently  changed  hands,  for  there  would 
be  some  little  improvements  made  on  it.  That's  the 
only  time  a  man  ever  had  any  heart  for  laying  out 
money  and  effort  on  his  place. 

"The  other  agents  in  town  got  onto  me  right  straddle 
of  my  neck  for  not  booming  the  region  more;  but  I 
couldn't  do  it.  If  a  man  came  to  me  and  I  found  he 
had  a  family  of  children  I  would  urge  him  to  keep  his 
money  and  go  back  where  he  came  from.  If  he  was  a 
single  man,  or  there  was  only  him  and  his  wife,  I 
showed  what  there  was  to  be  had  and  let  him  use  his 
own  judgment.  But,  by  gosh,  I  didn't  feel  right  even 
about  that,  and  now  I'm  quit  of  the  business." 

Note. — Los  Angeles,  the  metropolis  of  Southern  California,  is 
naturally  the  first  stopping-place  of  every  tourist  who  arrives  by  the 


Spring  in  Southern  California  105 

Santa  Fe  or  Southern  Pacific.  In  1880  this  "Town  of  the  Queen 
of  the  Angels,"  as  the  Spaniards  called  it,  had  only  eleven  thousand 
inhabitants,  but  twenty-five  years  later  there  were  nearly  two  hundred 
thousand.  It  is  a  modern  big  city,  yet  with  environs  that  are  pecul- 
iarly charming.  Here  is  some  of  the  finest  fruit  country  on  the  west 
coast  and  you  find  innumerable  groves  of  both  orange  and  lemon 
trees,  and  the  homes  nestle  among  blossoms  and  green  foliage  even 
in  midwinter.  Then  there  is  a  background  of  rugged  mountain 
heights,  and  not  far  away  in  the  other  direction  is  the  sea  and  the 
enchanting  island  of  Santa  Catalina,  reputed  to  be  the  greatest  fishing- 
place  on  earth.  Every  facility  is  provided  for  seeing  the  towns  and 
villages  of  the  Los  Angeles  region  and  for  climbing  the  mountains  or 
going  to  the  wild  isle  off"  the  coast. 

The  most  famous  suburb  of  Los  Angeles  is  Pasadena.  This,  too, 
is  a  city,  but  for  the  most  part  is  a  place  of  homes,  each  with  a  setting 
of  velvety  turf  and  full-foliaged  trees  and  flowers.  It  is  a  playground 
of  wealth,  the  winter  dwelling-place  of  a  multitude  of  Eastern 
people  and  contains  some  of  the  finest  residence  thoroughfares  on  this 
continent.  Various  other  flourishing  towns  and  much  of  the  best 
cultivated  portion  of  this  "Land  of  the  Afternoon"  can  be  glimpsed 
by  taking  a  day's  trip  on  a  railway  that  makes  a  long  loop  back  into 
the  interior.  Of  the  towns  on  this  loop  that  would  best  repay  a 
special  visit  I  think  Riverside  and  Redlands  should  have  the 
preference. 

The  country  is  least  attractive  in  the  parched  months  of  the  late 
summer  and  early  autumn,  and  is  seen  at  its  best  in  April  and  May. 
As  compared  with  the  temperature  that  most  of  the  states  east  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  experience  in  the  colder  months,  the  West  Coast 
climate  will  be  found  very  genial,  but  warm  clothing,  light  overcoats, 
shawls,  or  convenient  wraps  which  may  be  used  or  discarded  according 
to  one's  needs,  are  an  essential  part  of  the  traveller's  outfit.  The 
evenings  and  nights  are  sure  to  be  cool,  and  chilling  rains  are  a  fre- 
quent feature  of  the  winter. 


SANTA    BARBARA    AND    ITS    HISTORIC    MISSION 

THERE  had  been  rain  early  in  the  day,  but  as 
my  train  went  northward  from  Los  Angeles 
the  clouds  rolled  away,  and  when  we  came  to 
the  seashore  the  sun  was  shining  from  the  west  in  a 
broad  dazzling  path  of  light  across  the  restless  waves. 
Off  in  the  distance  were  some  islands  nearly  hidden  in 
silvery  haze.  A  series  of  fine  big  hills  hugged  the  ocean, 
and  we  skirted  their  bases  close  to  the  beach  till  we 
reached  Santa  Barbara  where  the  hills  gave  place  to  a 
wide  valley  and  disclosed  a  noble  range  of  mountains 
rising  along  the  east. 

The  lower  portion  of  the  town  is  a  straggling  and 
promiscuous  set  of  buildings,  and  misses  little  of  being 
squalid;  but  as  you  go  farther  back,  homes  of  the 
suburban  type  become  more  and  more  numerous  till 
you  find  nothing  else  but  handsome  cottages  and  villas 
hiding  amid  the  semi-tropical  luxuriance  of  blossoms 
and  shrubbery.  On  a  gentle  hill  at  the  end  of  the  vale 
stands    the    Mission    charming   the    beholder   with    its 

1 06 


Garden  work 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission        107 

simplicity,  its  size,  its  imposing  situation  and  its  storied 
age.  It  is  a  structure  that  seems  to  belong  to  another 
realm  and  another  civilization,  and  the  only  local 
buildings  at  all  akin  to  it  are  a  few  lowly  adobe  houses 
in  the  town  center,  just  off  the  main  business  street — 
survivals  of  the  old  Spanish  village.  These  are  usually 
whitewashed,  and  they  have  broad,  tile-floored  veran- 
dahs with  roses,  morning-glories  or  other  vines  growing 
along  the  front.  Neither  the  chill  of  winter,  nor  the 
heat  of  summer  can  very  well  penetrate  their  massive 
earthen  walls.  As  one  of  the  dwellers  said  to  me,  "It 
might  be  August,  and  the  sun  no  matter  how  hot,  you 
go  in  this  house,  it  be  cold,  nice,  good." 

He  showed  me  a  patch  of  grapevines  trimmed  back 
to  the  bare  stubs,  but  the  green  new  sprouts  were 
already  well  started,  and  he  said,  "They  will  have  on 
them  fine  grapes — good  to  eat,  good  to  make  wine, 
and  the  wine  is  more  strong  as  whiskey.  See  how  these 
vines  is  growing.  I  have  all  the  time  to  cut  them  back. 
He  grow  fast,  queek!  You  bet  you!  By  gosh,  give 
him  a  chance  and  he  grow  all  over  the  place!  That  is 
cactus  over  there.  Prickly  pear,  I  call  him.  The  fruit 
has  many  pins  on  it — what  you  call  them  ? — thorns. 
But  get  them  off  and  the  skin  off,  and  the  inside  is 
sweet,  good." 

I  asked  him  the  name  of  a  little  flowering  plant 
growing  underfoot,  but  he  only  knew  that  it  was  a  weed 


\ 


108     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 


which  was  sometimes  used  for  medicine.  "It  will  keep 
you  well  better  than  the  doctor,"  he  continued.  "If 
I  be  made  sick  of  the  stomach  I  boil  it  for  a  drink. 
Ah!  the  doctor  can  not  tell  what  is  the  trouble  inside 
of  you.  He  get  him  your  money.  He  don't  care 
whether  you  die." 

I  went  into  one  old  adobe.  It  was  pretty  dismal  and 
dark  and  bare,  and  the  rafters  and  roof-boards  over- 
head were  black  with  soot.  The  two  things  that  most 
impressed  me  were  the  presence  of  a  piano,  and  a  sign 
hung  on  the  wall  that  had  been  painted  by  some  genius 
of  the  family  and  which  said,  don't  spick  in  the  table. 
The  idea  of  the  motto  was  not  to  chatter  while  eating. 

In  my  wanderings  about  the  old  part  of  the  town  I 
came  across  an  Irishman  converting  a  wayside  blue 
gum  that  he  had  felled,  into  firewood.  The  chopper 
was  elderly,  tattered  and  rusty,  but  in  independent 
circumstances,  nevertheless;  for  he  pointed  across  the 
road  and  affirmed  that  he  owned  an  entire  block  of 
land  and  the  various  cabins  on  it,  property  worth  in 
his  say-so  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars.  He  men- 
tioned that  he  lived  over  there,  and  I  asked  him  in  which 
house.  He  responded  that  he  didn't  live  in  any  house, 
but  camped  in  a  wagon  which  was  hidden  from  view 
by  some  intervening  buildings. 

"Have  ye  been  up  to  the  ould  Mission  ?"  he  queried, 
settling    himself   comfortably    on  the  blue    gum    log. 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission        109 

"It  is  an  intheresting  place  to  look  about,  and  soom 
like  to  go  to  church  there  on  Sundays.  I  wint  wunst 
mesilf.  A  lady  who  thought  a  heap  of  me  had  invited 
me  to  go  wid  her,  and  she  sat  in  the  front  seat.  But 
I  stayed  near  the  door;  and  close  by  me  was  a  lobby 
hole  or  box  like  a  little  room  built  ag'in  the  wall  and 
I  could  hear  a  priest  a-muttering  in  it.  Yes,  he  was 
in  there  a-gobbling  away  like  an  ould  turkey — joost  as  if 
the  outside  wasn't  good  enough  for  him  and  he  moost  go 
in  there  and  gobble  by  himself;  and  I  couldn't  under- 
stand a  word  he  said,  for  he  didn't  speak  out  plain 
and  brave. 

"There  was  a  lot  o'  prayin'  to  be  did  in  the  church 
service,  and  you  had  to  be  crossin'  yoursilf  and  pokin' 
your  heart  most  of  the  time.  But  I  wasn't  coom  for 
that.  I  was  there  to  listen  and  look.  I  couldn't  make 
mooch  sinse  out  of  what  I  heard,  because  a  good  deal 
was  in  Latin  or  soom  other  haythen  language.  Then 
there  was  a  feller  walkin'  around  swingin'  a  thing  that 
smoked — a  cincer,  they  call  it,  and  he  was  shakin'  it 
this  way  and  that  and  payin'  no  sort  of  attintion  to  it; 
and  I  said  to  mesilf,  'That  feller  is  no  Catholic.  He 
don't  care  what  he's  got  there,  whether  it's  wather  or 
a  kag  of  beer  or  what  it  is.' 

"I  want  ye  to  notice  one  place  at  the  Mission  particu- 
lar. Turn  off  the  road  that  goes  up  the  hill  joost  beyond 
the  main  building  and  ye  will  see  the  ruins  of  three 


no     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

rooms.  It's  telled  me  that  the  ould  monks  walled  up 
some  bad  people  in  there  to  stay  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives.  The  backmost  room  was  very  small  and  half 
under  the  hill,  and  the  opening  into  it  was  only  a  round 
hole  that  you  had  to  crawl  through  on  your  face  and 
hands.  It  seems  like  that  was  the  place  for  thim  that 
was  very  bad — the  outlawed  criminals.  The  others 
stayed  in  the  bigger  rooms  where  it  was  more  plisant. 
"  But  whin  Fremont  coom  here  he  throwed  a  cannon 
ball  or  two  at  thim  rooms,  and  he  let  the  prisoners 
loose.  He  knowed  what  was  there.  I  niver  had  thought 
well  of  his  outfit — coomin'  here  and  raising  thunder 
with  the  Spanish  people,  but  whin  I  seen  what  he  done 
in  leaving  those  prisoners  loose  I  felt  different.  A  man 
in  this  town  who  was  in  Fremont's  army  tould  me 
about  it,  but  he  has  been  dead  now  a  matther  of  five 
or  six  years.  Ah!  the  ould  padres  had  been  havin' 
their  own  way  till  Fremont  coom.  They  got  all  the 
Indians  workin'  for  'em  and  were  bossin'  thim  and 
makin'  thim  do  exactly  as  they  pleased  and  tellin'  thim 
if  they  didn't  obey  they'd  be  sint  to  hell  sure.  So  the 
padres  got  so  rich  and  proud  they  didn't  hardly  want 
to  speak  to  anyone.  Thim  prison  rooms  make  a  strange- 
lookin'  ruin  even  yit,  and  the  firrust  time  I  was  past 
the  hair  fairly  stood  up  on  me  head  at  the  sight.  I 
thought  I  would  as  soon  have  me  coffin  made  and  be 
put  in  the  ground  as  be  walled  in  there." 


Meditation 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission         in 

Really,  the  buildings  of  which  he  spoke  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  storage  and  filtering  of  the  old 
water  supply,  and  there  never  was  any  such  grim  prison 
as  he  described.  The  Mission  itself,  unlike  most  of 
the  California  Missions,  is  not  a  ruin,  but  is  in  excellent 
repair  and  still  the  dwelling  of  the  gowned  and  sandaled 
monks,  as  it  was  a  century  ago.  These  monks  are  so 
different  from  ordinary  folk  in  their  garments  and  in 
the  strangely  decorative  life  they  lead  that  it  is  fasci- 
nating to  watch  them  engaged  in  their  various  duties. 
The  furniture  and  all  the  belongings  of  the  Mission 
are  severely  simple,  but  the  great  court  back  of  the 
main  building  is  full  of  flowers  and  trees,  and  its  luxur- 
iance contrasts  oddly  with  the  severity  of  the  interiors. 
Throngs  of  visitors  are  constantly  coming  and  going. 
They,  however,  only  have  access  to  certain  public 
portions  of  the  premises,  so  that  those  portions  where 
the  friars  eat  and  sleep  and  do  their  daily  tasks  in  shops 
and  garden  and  fields  repose  in  almost  unbroken  calm. 

From  the  Mission  I  went  far  up  a  mountain  roadway 
that  for  a  long  distance  clung  to  a  hillside  well  up  above 
a  noisy  stream  coursing  along  in  the  wooded  hollow. 
The  road  was  muddy  and  gullied.  Heavy  wagons 
were  going  up  after  stone,  or  returning  loaded,  and 
there  were  many  equestrians — ladies,  men  and  children. 
Santa  Barbara  is  a  famous  place  for  horseback  expe- 
ditions.    Nearly  everyone  rides,  even  those  who  before 


112     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

they  go  there  never  have  been  on  a  horse,  and  all 
through  the  day  you  see  the  riders,  singly,  in  couples 
and  in  squads,  gallivanting  through  the  town  streets, 
and  meet  them  on  every  road  and  trail  for  miles  around. 

The  road  I  was  on  was  bordered  by  pastures  that  in 
places  were  grassy,  but  were  largely  covered  with  gray- 
green  sagebrush  mingled  with  thickets  of  chaparral 
misted  over  at  that  season  with  blue  blossoms.  In 
favored  spots  grew  the  cactus  and  clumps  of  great 
century  plants.  When  there  was  open  grazing  land  it 
was  strewn  with  rocks,  and  this  rocky  ground  seemed 
to  favor  the  growth  of  scattered  groves  of  live  oaks. 
The  oaks  were  wonderfully  twisted  and  distorted, 
their  bark  was  gray  with  lichen  and  they  looked  as 
ancient  as  the  rock-strewn  hills  on  which  they  stood. 

At  one  point  I  came  on  a  herd  of  cattle  feeding  along 
the  brushy  roadside,  and  three  boys  were  watching 
them.  The  watchers  were  playing  with  a  pet  cow  that 
was  lying  down,  and  which  seemed  to  take  a  sort  of 
sleepy  pleasure  in  their  proceedings.  The  clothing  of 
the  lads  was  covered  with  dirt  and  hairs,  for  they 
tumbled  about  on  the  ground  or  leaned  on  the  creature 
and  rubbed  it  companionably.  One  boy  was  milking 
into  his  mouth.  The  oldest  of  the  trio  said,  "  My  father 
gave  me  this  cow  when  she  was  a  little  bit  of  a  calf,  and 
I  take  care  of  her.  If  he  tries  to  milk  her  he  gets 
kicked,  but  I  can  milk  her  anywhere.     Last  December 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission        113 

she  pretty  near  died.  There  was  no  feed  in  the  pastures, 
and  the  cattle  was  dying  all  over.  We  lost  quite  a  few, 
and  this  cow  got  so  weak  she  would  tumble  down. 
So  we  carried  feed  to  her  and  she  got  stronger.  We 
watch  the  cattle  here  all  day,  but  at  noontime  take 
turns  going  home  to  dinner.  When  night  comes  we 
drive  the  cattle  into  the  pasture." 

I  went  on  until  the  foothills  began  to  merge  into  the 
rough  steeps  of  the  mountains,  and  then  I  wandered 
back  to  the  town. 

On  my  last  afternoon  in  Santa  Barbara  I  again  had 
a  talk  with  the  Irishman-of-wealth  who  lived  in  a 
wagon.  He  was  still  laboring  at  the  big  blue  gum,  but 
desisted  from  his  exertion  to  sit  down  and  chat,  as 
readily  as  he  had  before.  He  was  especially  eager  to 
know  what  I  thought  of  the  Mission  and  its  monks  and 
their  religion.  Soon  he  was  relating  some  of  his  personal 
opinions  and  experiences. 

"I'm  not  mooch  stuck  on  religion  mesilf,"  said  he, 
"and  a  little  church-going  lasts  me  a  long  time.  Wunst 
my  fri'nds  tould  me  I  ought  to  go  to  confession.  So  I 
said  I  would,  and  at  the  church  where  they  tuk  me  I 
wint  into  a  little  room,  and  there  was  two  chairs  and  a 
priest,  and  he  and  me  set  down.  Thin  he  began 
moombling  along  like  a  drunken  man  wid  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth.  Well,  I  listened  and  listened;  and  as  I 
could  make  no  sinse  at  all  out  of  his  moombling,  I  said 


H4     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

nothing;    and  at  last  he  got  up  and  says,  'Adieu,  coom 
again;'  and  I  says,  'All  right,'  and  wint  out. 

"Last  week  a  Salvationist  preacher  was  along  the 
road  here,  and  he  stopped  to  speak  wid  me  as  I  was 
hackin'  away  at  this  tree.  He  wanted  me  to  go  to 
church.  I  tould  him  I  wouldn't  care  if  there  was  niver 
a  church  in  the  woruld.  'I  don't  believe  in  your  Bible,' 
I  says.  'There's  good  things  in  it,  but  there's  the  divil 
and  everything  else  besides  in  it,  and  it  tells  lies  the 
same  as  the  rest  of  the  people.' 

"  'Brother,'  he  says,  'ye  moostn't  think  that  way.' 

"  'Well,'  I  says,  'you  take  sooch  a  story  as  that  about 
Noah — and  how  God  raised  the  wather  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean  and  turned  it  topsided  like  over  Asia  and 
drowned  all  the  people — I  can't  bel'ave  it.  Would  God 
be  that  cruel  ?' 

"'He  was  not  cruel,'  the  Salvationist  said.  'There 
was  an  ark,  and  whin  the  flood  came  and  the  people 
was  all  a-swimming  God  tould  thim  to  come  into  the 
ark,  and  they  would  not.' 

"  'How  could  they  all  get  in  ?'  I  says.  'It  wouldn't 
have  held  thim.' 

"'Eh-heh!'  he  kind  o'  stammered,  'God  can  do 
anything.     He  made  the  woruld.' 

'What  did  he  make  it  out  of?'  I  asked. 

'He  made  it  out  of  doost,'  says  the  Salvationist. 

"'And  who  made  the  doost?'  I  says. 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission         115 

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  I  ketched  him  there,  and  he  got 
mad  at  me.  'You  can  get  soom  kids  to  believe  thim 
things,'  I  says;  'but  it's  no  use  to  be  arguin'  to  a  sinsible, 
intilligent  man.  I  keep  the  straight  thrack  and  I  want 
no  more  of  this  nonsinsical  talk.'' 

The  chopper  took  his  hat  off  and  ran  his  fingers 
thoughtfully  through  his  hair.  Then  he  resumed  his 
remarks  by  asking,  "Did  ye  iver  know  there  was  gold 
in  Ireland  ?  Well,  whin  I  was  a  kid  I  lived  about  twinty 
miles  from  the  city  of  Cork,  and  near  me  home  was  a 
nice  creek — not  like  these  streams  in  California,  but 
clear  and  beautiful  and  running  all  the  time;  and  wan 
day  I  see  a  bright  stone  in  the  wather — it  might  be 
about  the  size  of  a  goose's  egg,  and  I  picked  it  up. 
I  had  niver  seen  anything  like  it — so  yaller  and  heavy, 
and  it  took  me  eye.  So  I  carried  it  home  to  me  mother 
and  she  put  it  under  the  bed. 

"  Me  mother  had  been  nurse  in  a  gintleman's  family, 
a  family  that  was  way  up,  and  the  gintleman's  daughter 
would  soomtimes  coom  and  call  on  her.  The  young 
lady  was  there  wan  time  all  dhressed  up  so  very  fine, 
and  me  mother  showed  her  the  yaller  stone  from  under 
the  bed,  and  the  young  lady  carried  it  away  wid  her. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  the  stone  was  thin,  but  since  I 
been  in  this  country  and  worked  in  the  mines  I  know 
it  was  a  lump  of  pure  gold.  I  seen  in  that  creek  other 
stones  like  it,  and  going  right  across  the  creek  was  a 


n6     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

vein  of  what  I  called  white  rocks,  that  now  I  would  call 
honeycomb  quartz — gold  bearing.  If  I  broke  the  rock 
the  pieces  would  hang  together  wid  the  gold  in  it. 
Soomtimes  I  would  pick  up  one  o'  the  gold  pebbles, 
and  it  seemed  so  heavy  I  would  toss  it  up  joost  to  feel 
it  coom  down  chuck  in  the  palm  of  me  hand.  If  it  fell 
on  the  ground  it  would  make  the  doost  fly,  it  was  that 
heavy.  Ah,  there's  plinty  of  rich  ore  in  Ireland,  and 
what's  the  matther  they  don't  give  the  people  per- 
mission for  to  mine  it  ?  I  s'pose  if  I  was  to  go  back  there 
and  try  to  get  that  gold  they'd  put  me  in  jail,  eh  ? 

"Well,  now,  I  was  by  the  creek  another  time  where 
there  was  a  deep  hole  wid  a  ruffle  below  it,  and  in  this 
deep  place  I  see  soom  throut.  Wan  was  ahead  and  the 
others  was  following  like  a  lot  of  dogs  running  after 
another,  goin'  along  in  rotation.  The  first  throut  had 
soomthing  in  its  mouth — oh,  so  shining — joost  like 
sunlight.  Pretty  soon  the  throut  dropped  it,  and  the 
next  one  picked  it  up  and  the  rest  kept  on  chasing  until 
he  dropped  it  and  another  ketched  it,  and  away  wid  it. 
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  I  kept  watchin'  and  by  and  by  I  got 
hold  o'  the  shining  thing — and  what  was  it  but  a 
di'mond.  I  didn't  know  thin,  though,  what  it  was,  and 
I  ran  home  and  showed  it  to  me  mother  and  said,  'Oh, 
look  what  a  nice  little  rock  I  got!' 

But  she  let  the  gintleman's  daughter  take  it,  and  the 
young  lady  put  it  in  a  ring.    I  worked  at  her  house  whin 


The  artist 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission        117 

I  got  older,  and  she  would  show  me  the  ring  wid  the 
di'mond  in  it  and  make  it  flash  the  light  over  on  the 
wall,  and  she  would  tell  how  she  had  the  value  of  so 
mooch  wealth  on  her  finger.  That's  the  way  people 
have  cheated  me  all  me  life — because  I  would  niver 
grab  for  anything. 

"  Perhaps  not  iveryone  would  have  seen  what  I  seen. 
Soom  of  us  are  odd  from  the  balance  of  the  people. 
I  have  tould  you  about  the  gold  and  the  di'mond,  but 
the  most  wonderful  thing  in  me  life  is  that  I  have  seen 
the  fairies.  Me  father  seen  'em  too,  and  he  said  his 
father  did  before  him;  and  so  I  suppose  have  all  the 
ginerations  in  our  family  from  the  commincement  of 
the  woruld  right  down.  I  remimber  the  first  time  I 
seen  'em  I  was  a  boy  out  in  the  pasture.  I  was  all  alone, 
and  I  seen  forty  or  fifty  little  men  goin'  along,  and  they 
were  no  more  than  three  feet  high.  They  wore  stove- 
pipe hats  and  bobtail  coats  and  knee-breeches,  and  each 
had  a  big  long  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  they  stood  up  so 
straight  and  plump  and  nice  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look 
at  'em.  Ye  see  they  was  dhressed  in  the  rael  ould-time 
Irish  costume.  I  have  seen  the  Scotch  costume  and  the 
other  national  costumes,  and  soom  are  good  enough, 
and  soom  are  crazy-like,  but  none  are  equal  to  the  Irish. 
I  tell  you  an  Irishman  in  that  ould  dhress  looked  like  a 
smart,  intilligent,  brave  man.  Ivery  wan  o'  those  fairy 
men  carried  a  blackthorn  stick.     Ah,  how  mooch  the 


n8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

ould  Irish  did  think  o'  their  blackthorns!  How  they 
did  bile  'em  in  hot  wather  and  rub  thim  wid  ile,  and 
hang  thim  up  in  the  chimney  to  get  seasoned  and 
smoked,  and  they  always  carried  thim  to  protict  thim- 
silves  when  they  wint  to  a  fair. 

"Well,  there  was  a  bird  in  Ireland  used  to  coom  and 
sing  to  me — a  little  black  bird  like  wan  o'  these  pewees. 
Whin  I  took  shipping  for  this  counthry  I  felt  very  bad 
to  be  leavin'  me  little  bird.  I  said,  'Oh,  I'm  so  sorry! 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  lose  me  luck.' 

"But  after  we  was  about  ten  days  out  I  looked  back, 
and  there  I  saw  me  little  pewee  coomin',  and  he  flew 
like  he  was  awful  tired.  Finally  he  caught  up  wid  us 
and  lit  on  the  topmast,  and  there  he  stayed  the  rest  of 
the  day.  The  next  morning  he  was  down  on  the  first 
yard,  and  the  day  after  that  he  was  on  the  bulwarks. 
I  was  on  the  promenade  poop  forward,  and  I  spoke  to 
him,  and  he  coom  and  hopped  about  and  e't  soom  of 
a  piece  of  bread  I  had,  and  then  he  hollered,  '  Pe-wee- 
wee-wee-wee ! '  and  flew  back  up  in  the  riggin'. 

"After  a  while  I  wint  down  below,  and  whin  I  coom 
up  again  I  couldn't  see  him  at  all  any  more.  But  he 
visits  me  lots  o'  times  since  I  been  in  this  counthry. 
It's  the  same  bird,  wid  the  same  motions  and  song  my 
little  bird  in  Ireland  had.  I  could  tell  him  from  any 
other  bird.  He  cooms  and  gives  me  warnin'  if  soom- 
thin'  is  goin'  to  go  bad;   and  maybe,  now  and  then  he 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission         119 

will  appear  as  a  cow.  There  was  wunst  I  had  a  little 
bit  of  a  log  cabin  down  the  coast  a  few  miles,  and  there 
was  a  good  stout  fince  around  it,  and  barley  a-growin' 
in  the  yard.  Well,  I  was  settin'  in  me  cabin  wan  day 
whin  a  cow  stuck  her  head  in  the  door  and  laughed 
joost  like  a  Christian.  'How  did  you  get  inside  my 
fince?'  I  said.    'It's  destroyin'  my  barley,  ye  are.' 

"So  I  drove  her  out  of  the  gate,  and  I  was  astonished 
she  wint  so  quick  and  peaceable,  and  not  ugly  and 
conniptious  like  most  cows.  Thin  I  looked  at  the  barley, 
but  it  was  not  hurt  at  all.  Another  day  I  found  the  cow 
rubbin'  herself  against  the  side  of  my  little  house,  and  I 
drove  her  ofF  across  the  fields  till  she  passed  around 
soom  bushes,  and  the  next  minute  she  coom  in  sight 
and  a  calf  wid  her.  She  passed  behind  soom  more 
bushes,  and  as  soon  as  she  appeared  again  there  was 
half  a  dozen  more  cows  wid  her.  Ha-ha-ha-ha!  I 
picked  up  a  rock  to  throw  at  her,  but  she  looked  me 
such  a  look  I  did  not  throw.  'That's  the  ould  fairies,' 
I  said,  and  I  asked  forgiveness. 

"The  cow  kept  foolin'  wid  me  for  about  a  month. 
I  wa'n't  feelin'  well,  and  I  was  gettin'  worse.  'Oh,' 
I  thought,  'I'm  goin'  to  die!' 

"  I  took  a  walk  out  wan  day,  and  I  seen  that  cow  by 
the  side  of  the  road,  and  I  stopped  and  had  a  good  look 
at  her.  'What  a  fine  cow!'  I  says,  'and  how  full  your 
bag  is  wid  milk!     I  niver  noticed  that  before.     I  will 


120     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

bring  a  bucket  and  milk  you  and  have  soom  bread  and 
milk  to  eat.' 

"So  I  got  the  bucket  and  kneeled  down  to  milk,  but 
the  cow  began  to  hitch  around  and  would  not  stand 
still,  and  I  said,  'If  you  don't  quit  that  I'll  hit  you  wid 
the  bucket.' 

"She  lifted  up  wan  hind  foot  like  she  was  goin'  to 
kick,  and  she  turned  her  head  around  and  looked  at 
me  as  if  she  was  human  and  had  sinse.  I  was  scared 
and  I  started  to  escape  into  a  near  field.  Well,  now 
thin,  as  I  was  goin'  over  the  fince  I  looked  back  and 
there  was  no  cow  to  be  seen.  She'd  gone  out  of  sight 
while  I  was  takin'  three  steps. 

"The  next  evening  I  was  out  again,  and  there  was 
the  cow  in  the  road,  and  the  milk  was  runnin'  out  of  her 
bag  and  down  the  road  in  a  regular  stream  to  the  gulch. 
I  hurried  and  brought  me  bucket  and  caught  about  two 
inches  in  the  bottom  of  it.  Thin  I  carried  it  to  the  house 
and  had  soom  bread  and  milk,  and  that  milk  was 
delicious,  palatable,  fine.  It  was  the  best  I  iver  tasted. 
It  made  another  man  of  me.  I  could  feel  the  change 
at  wunst.     It  braced  me  up  and  I  was  well. 

"I  had  soom  milk  left  and  I  thought  I  would  let  it 
stay  in  the  bucket  and  have  it  in  the  morning,  but 
when  morning  came  and  I  looked  in  the  bucket  I  saw 
nothing  but  wather  there.  At  noon  I  looked  in  again 
and  the  bucket  was  dry.    Now,  what  do  you  call  that  ? 


At  WOl  k  in  a  homr  yard 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission         121 

It  was  the  fairies  all  the  same  havin'  fun  wid  me.  I  was 
sick  and  they  cured  me.  They  knowed  it  was  no 
bother  to  do  it. 

"The  fairies  had  a  hand  too  in  my  gettin'  this  block 

of  land    I   own.     They  showed    me   the   picture  of  it 

before  I  left  Ireland,  and  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  it  I 

was  certain  it  was  what  they  intinded  I  should  have. 

Thin,  wan  time  here,  the  fairies  tould  me  I  could  have 

great  herds  of  cattle  or  sheep  or  pigs.     'Whativer  kind 

of  animals  ye  want  ye  can  have,'  they  said;    and   I 

chose  the  cattle,  and  no  sooner  did  I  say  the  word  than      '  : 

up  coom  a  band  of  cattle  out  of  the  ground — hoondreds 

1  f  2    ^ 

av  thim.     'There  they  are,'  the  fairies  said,  'and  in     £ 

twinty  years  thim  will  be  yours,  and  the  ranch  they're 

on,  if  ye  want  thim.' 


«  -< 


"Well,  they  were  on  a  ranch  where  a  lady  named 
Hale  lived,  and  ivery  cow  had  two  calves  a  year,  and   ( 
things  wint  along  very  prosperous.     The   fairies  was  r~ 
workin'  on  the  lady,  too,  and  she  had  her  eye  on  me,  £ 
and  she  knew  me  fairy  cows  was  on  her  ranch,  and 
that  I  was  joost  givin'  up  to  her  the  twinty  years'  use 
av  thim.     So  whin  the  time  was  gone,  she  cooms  and 
wants  me  to  marry  her;   but  I  thought  I'd  go  along  on 
me  own  hook.     Oh,  this  is  a  very  peculiar  sort  of  a 
woruld — this  is!" 

My  comrade  rose  and  chopped  a  few  strokes,  but  the 
day   was   drawing   to   an   end.      Some   fellow-laborers 


122     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

passed  on  the  street  and  shouted  a  greeting  to  him 
and  he  concluded  to  stop  work.  He  put  on  his  vest 
and  coat,  took  up  his  axe  and  saw  and  started  for 
home.  I  went  with  him,  and  we  walked  around  into 
the  lot  where,  back  of  a  neighbor's  shed,  he  had  his 
queer  habitation.  It  was  a  big  old  lumber  wagon  with 
a  piece  of  canvas  spread  from  the  high  seat  down 
toward  the  back.  The  shelter  afforded  was  poor  and 
cramped.  A  few  other  belongings  were  scattered  about 
in  the  grass  and  there  was  a  wreck  of  a  stove  that  could 
still  be  made  to  serve  after  a  fashion.  But  then,  though 
to  me  these  household  effects  seemed  meagre  and 
shabby,  I  do  not  know  that  they  so  impressed  the  owner. 
He  had  the  gift  of  imagination;  and  beautiful  as  is 
nature  in  that  region,  and  delightful  as  is  the  ancient 
Mission,  there  is  nothing  in  my  visit  I  remember 
with  more  pleasure  than  this  man  with  his  visions  of 
realms  beyond  my  ken. 

Note. — Santa  Barbara  is  one  of  the  most  attractive  towns  in 
California,  beautiful  in  its  surrounding  scenery,  not  so  large  as  to  be 
dominated  by  commercialism,  nor  so  small  as  to  be  rude  and  lacking 
in  comfortable  accommodations.  The  old  survives  amid  the  new,  and 
you  can  even  yet  find  buildings  and  life  that  have  the  characteristics 
of  the  time  of  Spanish  rule.  Here  is  the  best  preserved  of  all  the  old 
Missions.  Every  Mission  is  worth  seeing,  but  Santa  Barbara  has 
one  where  the  gowned    and   sandaled   monks  still  dwell  and   labor. 


Santa  Barbara  and  its  Historic  Mission        123 

The  chief  outdoor  pleasures  for  the  sojourner  here  are  coaching, 
cross-country  horseback  riding,  fishing  and  hunting.  Most  visitors 
would  be  interested  to  read  the  account  of  early  days  in  Santa 
Barbara  to  be  found  in  Dana's  "Two  Years  Before  the  Mast."  This 
book,  in  fact,  entertainingly  describes  the  aspect  and  customs  of 
every  old  sea  town  from  San  Francisco  to  San  Diego. 


VI 

A    VALE    OF    PLENTY 

CALIFORNIA  has  a  number  of  valleys  that  are  at 
the  same  time  remarkable  for  their  great  size  and 
their  productive  capacity,  but  the  San  Joaquin 
excels  any  of  the  others.  A  few  decades  ago  it  was  not 
esteemed  of  much  use  except  for  grazing,  though  cer- 
tain parts  would  grow  excellent  crops  of  wheat;  but 
irrigation  has  changed  all  this,  and  as  you  pass  through 
it  on  the  train  you  marvel  at  the  seemingly  endless 
succession  of  thriving  fields  and  orchards. 

My  first  day  in  the  valley  was  a  Sunday  spent  at  a 
little  village  consisting  mostly  of  a  hotel  and  a  few 
stores  and  saloons  facing  the  railway.  Round  about 
was  a  vast  level  extending  for  miles  in  every  direction, 
and  nearly  all  of  it  green  with  wheat.  At  long  intervals, 
amid  this  green  sea  could  be  discerned  a  small  huddle 
of  buildings  where  there  was  a  ranch  house.  It  was 
one  of  the  regions  in  which,  when  the  grain  ripens,  a 
harvester  is  used  that  is  drawn  by  thirty-six  mules  or 
horses,  and  that  cuts  off  the  heads  of  the  wheat,  threshes 
out  the  grain  and  drops  it  in  sacks  behind.    Forty  acres 

124 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  125 

will  be  covered  daily  on  good  ground  and  the  season 
lasts  three  months.  After  the  harvester  has  finished, 
the  cattle  are  turned  onto  the  land  and  they  feed  on 
the  stubble  and  trample  it  so  it  can  be  ploughed  under. 

For  an  hour  or  two  in  the  morning  I  sat  on  the  hotel 
piazza  a  little  way  from  a  group  of  men  gathered  near 
the  door  of  the  odorous  barroom.  The  day  was 
quiet  and  warm.  The  flies  buzzed,  and  some  sparrows 
chattered  noisily  and  flitted  about  with  bits  of  straw  and 
bark  and  string  for  their  nest-building  beneath  the 
cornice  of  the  piazza.  A  few  teams  were  hitched  to 
railings  under  the  umbrella  trees  along  the  sidewalk, 
and  there  were  occasional  passers  on  the  highway.  One 
of  these  passers  was  a  man  driving  two  burros  laden 
with  packs.  The  creatures  walked  slowly  and 
patiently  and  he  followed  behind.  He  was  from  some 
mine,  and  all  his  outfit  and  belongings  were  on  the 
donkeys.  A  boy  on  horseback  rode  up  in  front  of  the 
hotel  and  borrowed  the  proprietor's  gun  that  he  might 
do  a  little  hunting.  A  tramp  came  along  and  wanted 
something  to  eat,  and  he  was  set  at  work  chopping 
wood.  Except  for  him  it  was  a  day  of  loafing  and 
recreation. 

The  largest  group  of  loiterers  gathered  in  front  of 
the  post  office  to  watch  or  participate  in  a  game  of 
marbles.  The  players  were  young  men  and  boys.  A 
little  fellow  named  Danny  was  getting  the  advantage 


126     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

when  I  joined  the  on-lookers,  and  a  young  man  in  blue 
trousers,  who  was  addressed  as  "Chub,"  was  about  to 
snap  his  taw  at  Danny's.  "I  want  to  kill  Danny,"  he 
said,  "and  make  him  give  up  his  winnings." 

But  he  missed,  and  his  marble  rolled  under  the 
piazza.  "Well,  I'll  be  dog-goned!"  he  exclaimed. 
"That's  just  the  way  my  luck  runs  today." 

The  piazza  underpinning  was  boarded  nearly  to  the 
ground.  He  lay  down  and  reached  unsuccessfully 
into  the  gloom.  Then  several  others  tried  it,  and  at 
last  one  of  them  got  a  stick  to  poke  with,  and  pretty 
soon  secured  the  taw. 

"It's  Al's  shot,  ain't  it?"  asked  Danny. 

"Look  out  for  me.     I'm  comin'!"  cried  Al. 

To  his  disgust  his  taw  stopped  in  the  ring,  and  the 
rules  obliged  him  to  drop  in  a  marble  to  get  it  out. 
"Well,  that  fattens  the  ring,  anyhow,"  he  said  philo- 
sophically as  he  made  the  exchange.  "  Knock  down 
there,  Nick;   it's  your  turn." 

Nick's  taw  was  near  the  ring,  and  that  he  might  make 
a  sure  shot  he  punched  up  a  little  heap  of  dirt  where  a 
marble  lay  in  the  ring  and  put  the  marble  on  top.  His 
method  proved  a  success,  and  Chub  said,  "He  sets  the 
marble  up  on  a  nubbin  and  then  fudges  it  right  off. 
Us  fellers  had  better  holler  when  he  gets  ready  again 
so  he  won't  shoot  straight.  That's  what  the  boys  used 
to  do  at  school.     It  always  mixed  me  up  and  made  me 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  127 

mad,  and  I'd  fight.     But  it  didn't  do  no  good  if  I  did 
fight.     I'd  get  licked  every  time." 

Nick  made  careful  preparations  for  a  second  shot, 
but  just  as  he  snapped  his  taw  his  comrades  all  shouted, 
and  he  was  so  confused  he  missed.  The  taw  rolled 
along  and  hit  someone's  foot.  "  Kicks  on!"  the  players 
cried,  and  the  one  who  had  stopped  it  gave  it  a  poke 
with  his  foot  to  carry  it  where  he  thought  it  would 
naturally  have  gone. 

"You're  havin'  a  pretty  hot  game,"  commented  a 
newcomer. 

"It's  a  warm  one,  I  tell  yer,"  responded  Al. 

"I  was  afraid  this  was  goin'  to  be  a  lonesome  old 
day,"  said  Chub,  "but  I've  had  a  lot  of  fun;"  and  the 
game  continued  hour  after  hour  until  dinner  time. 
Then  the  participants  divided  the  marbles,  for  they 
did  not  play  for  keeps,  and  went  their  several  ways. 

The  Sabbath  as  I  saw  it  here  is  characteristic  of  the 
Far  West.  Nearly  everywhere  it  is  a  holiday  to  a  very 
marked  extent,  and  church-going  is  decidedly  less  the 
habit  than  in  the  East.  Ball  games  are  one  of  the  most 
popular  of  the  amusements  of  the  day;  and  when  I 
chanced  to  spend  a  Sabbath  at  Visalia,  a  busy  town  in 
the  heart  of  one  of  the  best  portions  of  the  valley,  the 
chief  event  of  the  day  was  the  getting  out  of  the  fire 
engine  for  a  little  sport  and  practice  squirting  around 
the  streets. 


128     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

It  was  the  rainy  season,  and  we  had  several  heavy 
downpours  that  night  which  left  the  region  pretty 
thoroughly  soaked.  However,  the  sun  shone  forth  the 
next  morning,  and  in  spite  of  the  miry  walking  I  started 
for  a  long  ramble  among  the  farms.  I  had  to  do  a  good 
deal  of  dodging  to  get  around  the  pools  and  puddles, 
and  there  were  certain  of  the  "slues"  in  the  hollows 
which  almost  brought  me  to  a  stop.  Yet  by  climbing 
along  on  fences  or  resorting  to  the  embankment  of  an 
irrigating  ditch,  or  by  cutting  across  a  field  I  contrived 
to  continue  my  ramble. 

The  country  was  good  to  look  at  in  spite  of  the  over- 
abundance of  mud  and  water.  On  the  eastern  horizon 
rose  ranges  of  snowy  mountains,  but  the  lowlands  were 
a  green  paradise.  The  grazing  fields,  in  particular, 
were  very  beautiful  with  their  cattle,  horses,  or  hogs, 
and  with  their  scattering  ancient  oaks.  These  oaks 
abounded,  but  never  gathered  in  a  thick  wood.  They 
were  wide-spreading  and  stately  and  made  the  country 
look  like  a  park.  Other  native  trees  were  very  few, 
except  along  the  streams,  which  were  apt  to  be  thickly 
screened  by  willows  and  cottonwoods.  Many  great 
tracts  of  land  were  set  out  to  regular  rows  of  prune  and 
peach  trees,  and  every  farmhouse  seemed  to  have  its 
packing  shed  and  its  great  heap  of  wooden  drying-trays. 
Formerly  pears  were  a  staple  fruit,  but  some  sort  of  a 
blight  has  put  the  trees  out  of  business. 


The  news 


•  -i 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  129 

The  people  I  met  and  spoke  with  were  agreed  that 
it  was  an  unusual  condition  to  have  too  much  water,  and 
the  owners  of  the  flooded  lands  were  not  altogether 
happy,  yet  any  damage  they  suffered  was  largely  offset 
by  the  drowning  of  such  pests  as  the  gophers  and  ground 
squirrels.  The  local  conditions  therefore  were  on  the 
whole  satisfactory,  but  certain  other  sections  had  not 
fared  so  well.  For  instance,  in  the  same  county,  there 
used  to  be  a  lake  thirty  miles  broad  and  a  hundred 
long.  It  afforded  fine  fishing,  and  the  hunters  resorted 
to  it  to  shoot  the  abounding  ducks  and  geese.  Gradually 
it  dried  away  and  left  some  of  the  richest  farmland  in 
the  world.  The  old  lake-bed  became  a  great  wheat- 
producing  district,  but  now  the  heavy  rains  had  begun 
to  fill  the  basin  of  the  former  lake,  and  the  body  of  water 
was  fast  expanding  to  its  former  size.  The  wheat  had 
grown  to  be  waist  high  and  was  well  headed  out,  but 
the  lake-bed  dwellers  had  to  abandon  everything  except 
the  little  they  could  carry  away,  and,  driving  their  stock 
before  them,  they  sought  more  elevated  ground.  It  was 
thought  that  many  years  must  pass  before  the  water 
would  again  dry  away. 

As  I  walked  on  I  at  length  wandered  into  a  little 
village.  Near  its  center  I  stopped  on  the  piazza  of  a 
bakeshop.  Here  was  a  chair,  a  settee  and  several  boxes 
occupied  by  a  row  of  men  smoking,  spitting  and  talking. 
The   weather   was    not   propitious  for  field  work,  and 


130     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

the  piazza  group  was  in  a  very  leisurely  and  hospitable 
frame  of  mind.  If  anyone  passed,  either  walking  or 
driving,  they  never  failed  to  shout  out  an  invitation  to 
stop.  "Come  and  join  us,"  they  would  say.  "You'll 
never  find  a  better  lookin'  crowd  in  your  life." 

If  the  passer  was  riding,  the  remarks  would  continue, 
"Aw!  get  out  and  tie  up.  Take  a  rest.  Don't  be  in 
such  a  rush." 

Presently  a  fellow  approached  driving  a  smart  span 
of  horses  attached  to  a  gig.  "  Hold  on  to  them  ribbons 
thar!"  was  the  cry  from  the  piazza. 

The  man  in  the  gig  slowed  down  and  halted.  His 
vehicle  was  old  and  weatherbeaten,  but  it  had  a  bright 
red  whiffletree.  "Why  didn't  you  paint  the  rest  of 
your  gig  ?"  someone  queried. 

"Well,"  said  the  driver,  "  I  left  it  that  way  so  people'd 
ask  questions." 

"Say,  but  you  would  shine  if  your  gig  was  all  painted 
that  style,"  remarked  one  of  the  lookers-on. 

"This  is  a  nice  little  team,"  said  the  occupant  of 
the  gig.  "I've  driven  'em  about  fifteen  miles  and  now 
I  think  I'll  put  'em  in  the  stable." 

"Oh,  no,  don't  do  that,"  said  someone  on  the  porch. 
"Drive  'em  some  more.  It'll  make  'em  eat  their  hay 
good." 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  131 

Shortly  after  he  had  gone  a  man  in  a  top  buggy 
drove  up  in  front  of  the  bakeshop,  and  one  of  the  loafers 
said,  "Looks  like  you  was  goin'  somewhere." 

The  man  in  the  buggy  poked  his  head  out  and  said, 
"Who  wants  to  go  to  town  with  me  and  get  drunk  ?" 

Some  responded  that  they  would  like  well  enough  to 
get  drunk,  but  none  of  them  cared  to  exert  themselves 
sufficiently  to  go  to  town,  and  he  had  to  continue  his 
journey  alone. 

The  man  of  the  piazza  gathering  who  interested  me 
most  was  an  old  settler  of  the  region  who  had  come 
from  Tennessee  in  1870.  "But  the  country  had  been 
occupied  some  for  nearly  twenty  years  before  that," 
he  observed.  "In  1852  there  was  eight  or  ten  families 
built  a  stockade  at  Visalia  and  then  put  up  their  log 
cabins  against  it  around  on  the  outside.  The  Indians 
was  dangerous,  you  see,  and  even  after  I  come,  the 
danger  wa'n't  past.  They'd  kill  our  cattle,  and  they'd 
take  your  scalp  if  they  had  a  good  chance. 

"This  country  in  its  natural  state  was  a  forest  of  oak 
with  here  and  there  an  open  where  the  tall  grass  grew. 
We  used  to  cut  the  grass  for  hay.  Land  could  be  had 
almost  for  the  asking.  You  only  needed  to  take  up  a 
homestead  right  from  the  government,  and  when  you 
had  paid  sixteen  dollars  and  lived  on  the  land  five 
years  you  were  owner  of  a  quarter  section — one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  acres.     Deer,  antelopes  and  wild  mus- 


132     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

tangs  was  plenty.  You'd  often  see  the  antelopes  feeding 
in  among  the  cattle.  People  e't  their  meat,  but  it  was 
coarse  and  not  so  good  as  deer  meat.  You  could  go  up 
there  in  those  foothills  you  see  to  the  east  and  kill  a 
wagon  load  of  deer  in  a  day.  They  roamed  about  fifty 
to  a  hundred  in  a  band. 

"Bears  was  common  up  in  the  mountains — brown, 
cinnamon,  black  and  grizzlies;  but  I  wa'n't  lookin' 
for  them  fellers.  I  was  willin'  to  make  friends.  If 
they'd  let  me  alone  I'd  let  them  alone,  you  bet  yer  boots 
I  would.  But  one  time  I  was  up  there  helpin'  old  Billy 
Rhoades  with  his  sheep.  Fred  Stacy  was  with  me,  and 
we  was  goin'  across  a  little  medder  when  we  see  a 
full-grown  grizzly  bear  with  a  cub  follerin'  her,  and  they 
was  comin'  straight  toward  us. 

"It  happened  there  was  a  cluster  of  smallish  pine 
trees  near  by,  and  Fred  went  up  one  tree  and  I  went  up 
another.  I  didn't  have  a  thing  to  shoot  with,  and  I 
don't  suppose  I'd  have  used  a  gun  if  I'd  had  one.  The 
bear  kind  o'  looked  up  at  us  but  kept  on  down  the  trail. 
She  found  our  camp,  and  she  turned  over  our  potatoes 
and  beans  and  scattered  them  and  our  other  things  all 
about.  Yes,  she  had  a  regular  tear-up.  But  I  was 
glad  to  git  off  with  no  worse  damage.  A  bear  with  a 
cub  will  fight,  you  know,  and  I  come  as  clost  to  a  grizzly 
then  as  I  want  to,  less'n  the   bear  was  in  a  cage. 


Wider  for  irrigation 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  133 

"Another  time  old  man  Rhoades  and  his  son  was 
fetchin'  some  sheep  off  the  mountains,  and  the  boy 
went  into  a  canyon  for  a  drink.  He  lay  down  to  git 
at  the  water  when  a  black  bear  jumped  out  of  the 
willers  onto  him  and  begun  a-chawin'  him.  He  hollered 
for  the  old  man,  who  come  hurryin'  down — and  there 
was  the  bear  chawin'  on  his  boy.  The  only  thing  the 
old  man  had  to  attack  the  bear  with  was  a  pocket  knife. 
That  was  a  poor  weapon,  but  he  saw  he  had  the  job  to 
do,  and  he  didn't  hesitate.  The  bear  was  on  the  boy, 
and  the  old  man  was  on  the  bear;  and  he  got  her,  and 
he  skinned  her  afterward.  She  mighty  nigh  killed  the 
boy,  and  the  old  man  was  so  tore  and  scratched  he 
carried  the  scars  to  his  grave. 

"Anyone  could  have  a  horse  in  the  early  days  by 
just  goin'  out  and  ketchin'  a  wild  mustang.  The  way 
we  used  to  do  that  was  to  build  a  corral  consisting  of  a 
fence  about  eight  feet  high  around  a  half  acre  or  so, 
with  a  long  wing  fence  extending  out  from  it.  Then 
when  we  see  some  mustangs  feeding  near  we'd  go  out 
on  the  far  side  of  'em  and  give  a  yell  to  start  'em,  and 
by  heading  'em  off  we'd  drive  'em  against  the  wing 
fence  and  run  'em  right  into  the  corral.  After  that  a 
man  would  go  in  and  lasso  one.  He'd  have  to  be  on 
horseback  or  they'd  run  right  over  him. 

"When  he  got  a  mustang  roped  he'd  drag  him  out, 
put  on  a  bridle  and  saddle,  blindfold  him  and  get  on. 


134     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

The  mustang  didn't  like  that,  and  he'd  begin  to  buck. 
Seems  to  me  I've  seen  'em  buck  as  high  as  that  school- 
house  over  across  the  road.  No  matter  what  the 
mustang  did,  the  rider  had  got  to  stick  on.  That  was 
the  only  way  those  horses  could  be  broke.  They  were 
the  meanest  things  you  ever  see.  They  were  good  saddle 
ponies  though — fine!  An  ordinary  horse  wouldn't 
stand  half  what  they  would.  The  mustangs  were  small, 
but  they  were  tough  and  hardy — kind  o'  like  a  Jack 
rabbit.  You  could  run  one  all  day,  and  it  would  be 
about  as  good  at  the  end  as  when  it  started;  and  the 
next  morning  it  would  buck  you  off  if  you  wa'n't  careful. 

"When  I  come  here,  cattle,  sheep  and  hogs  were  all 
the  go.  There  was  very  little  soil  cultivated;  but 
gradually  it  got  to  be  a  great  wheat  country.  Now 
wheat  has  given  way  to  orchards,  and  we  ship  fruit  all 
over  the  world.  Alfalfa  is  grown  quite  a  little  and  is 
more  of  a  money-maker  than  fruit.  It's  ready  to  cut 
now,  and  we're  only  waiting  till  the  weather  is  settled 
so  we  can  cure  it.  We  git  four  or  five  crops  by  the  time 
the  frosts  bring  the  season  to  an  end.  It's  good  feed  for 
cattle  and  all  right  for  horses  if  you  use  some  grain  hay 
with  it.  By  grain  hay  I  mean  barley  and  wheat  cut 
when  it  is  in  a  stiff  dough — that  is  with  the  grain  just 
past  the  milk  stage. 

"  I  used  to  raise  wheat,  but  we  had  fifteen  dry  seasons 
right  a-running  which  did  me  up.     Now  the  weather 


At  work  along  an  irrigating  ditch 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  135 

seems  to  have  changed  and  I  look  for  fifteen  wet  seasons. 
So  I'm  goin'  to  try  wheat  again.  You  ain't  sure  of  a 
crop  unless  you  irrigate.  When  we  people  come  here 
from  the  East  we  didn't  know  anything  about  irrigation. 
But  somebody  tried  it  and  found  it  a  success.  Then 
we  all  turned  loose.  It's  a  good  thing.  At  the  same 
time  there's  a  lot  of  hard,  dirty  work  in  irrigating. 

"First  you're  obliged  to  plough  and  scrape  till  you've 
got  your  land  level  and  in  check.  We  put  two  or  three 
acres  in  a  check  with  a  levee  around  it.  The  checks 
have  to  be  smaller  if  the  land  is  rough.  Our  land  here 
is  pretty  smooth,  and  two  men  with  a  pair  of  horses 
can  git  a  quarter  section  in  order — leveling  checks, 
making  ditches  and  floodgates,  all  in  about  a  couple  of 
months.  But  you  are  out  something  right  along 
digging  to  keep  the  channels  clear  and  making  repairs. 
Still,  if  a  man  would  give  me  a  place  back  in  Tennessee 
whar  I  come  from  I  wouldn't  take  it  nohow,  if  I  had  to 
live  on  it.  In  a  wet  season  your  corn  would  turn  yaller 
as  a  punkin — it  was  aggrai^tin'! 

"To  show  you  what  can  be  done  here  I  want  to  tell 
you  about  a  little  orchard  of  apricots  I  bought  a  year 
ago.  Everybody  claimed  it  was  run  out,  but  I  trimmed 
the  trees  and  worked  the  ground  and  I  got  eight  tons 
of  fruit  which  I  sold  for  twenty  dollars  a  ton.  That 
was  better  than  a  thump  on  the  head  with  a  sharp 
stone,  wa'n't  it  ? 


136     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"You  can  raise  anything  that  will  grow  on  the  top 
side  of  the  earth,  in  this  valley.  I  got  only  two  objec- 
tions to  it — in  over  half  the  land  there's  alkali,  and 
secondly  malaria  is  a  good  deal  too  common.  You 
notice  our  houses  ain't  got  cellars  and  are  set  up  on 
posts  ofF  the  ground — some  of  'em  three  or  four  feet. 
That's  on  account  of  malaria. 

"  Perhaps  it  strikes  you  the  houses  must  be  cold  in 
winter,  but  we  don't  have  such  sharp  weather  as  they 
have  in  other  parts  of  United  States.  I  ain't  seen  but 
one  snowfall  in  all  the  time  I  been  here.  You  take  a 
person  from  back  East  and  drop  'em  down  here  in 
March  and  they  think  they're  in  Paradise.  Thar's  an 
old  lady  from  Iowa  just  come  lately  to  this  place,  and 
she  says  it  is  the  prettiest  country  she  ever  cast  her  eyes 
on.  When  she  come  everybody  was  freezin'  and  hov- 
erin'  over  the  fire  in  Iowa,  while  here  it  wa'n't  cold 
worth  mentioning,  and  she  says,  '  Here  I'll  live  and 
here  I'll  die.' 

"But  things  ain't  always  so  pleasant  in  our  valley  as 
people  think  they're  goin'  to  be.  Thar's  a  mighty  lot 
gits  fooled.  They  think  they  can  pick  up  twenty-dollar 
gold  pieces,  dog-gone-it;  and  they  have  it  all  figured 
out  how  easy  they  can  make  their  fortunes.  So  as  soon 
as  they  see  a  piece  of  property  that  they  fancy  they  just 
dive  in  and  pay  a  good  round  price.  Then  when  they 
find  they  can't  git  rich  in  a  few  weeks  like  they  expected, 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  137 

they're  sorry  they  grabbed  so  quick.  Often  they're  so 
homesick  that  they're  ready  to  take  whatever  anybody'll 
give  for  the  property  they've  bought.  There's  an  old 
negro  here  has  picked  up  a  lot  of  land  from  such  fellers 
till  he's  got  fifteen  or  twenty  sections,  and  it's  all  paid 
for,  too.  He's  a  mighty  good  darkey.  What  he  agrees 
to  do  he  does,  and  he's  looked  up  to  about  as  much  as 
anyone  in  this  region.  He's  a  cattle-man  and  a  hog- 
man  and  has  money  laid  away.  Every  one  of  his  girls 
that  gets  married  he  gives  five  thousand  dollars  and  a 
piece  of  land.     That's  a  pretty  good  starter,  eh  ? 

''The  poor  investments  that  are  made  by  strangers 
are  mostly  the  fault  of  the  real  estate  agents.  I  know 
of  a  man  who  sold  out  in  Kansas  and  come  here 
and  a  real  estate  agent  induced  him  to  buy  a  section  of 
old  alkali  land  at  forty  dollars  an  acre — made  him 
believe  it  was  the  richest  land  in  the  country.  The  agent 
done  wrong.  I  call  that  robbery.  The  land  wouldn't 
sprout  backyard  peas.  It  wa'n't  fitten  to  look  at.  Even 
salt  grass  wouldn't  grow  on  some  of  it.  You  know  what 
poor  stuff  salt  grass  is.  The  cattle  will  eat  it  when  they 
can't  get  anything  else,  but  it's  tough  and  they  got  to 
have  good  teeth  to  bite  it,  and  it  won't  fatten  'em  any. 
Well,  that  man  put  up  a  house  and  a  barn  and  a  corral 
before  he  found  out  what  sort  of  a  bargain  he'd  made. 
He  finally  went  back  to  where  he  come  from,  and  his 


138     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

buildings  are  standing  empty.  He's  got  his  money  in 
that  place,  and  he'll  never  get  it  out. 

"Of  course  a  good  many  fellers  have  taken  land  and 
made  money;  but  there's  a  blamed  sight  more  who  have 
lost." 

As  a  whole  the  region  around  Visalia  looked  produc- 
tive and  prosperous,  and  in  order  to  see  some  of  the 
poorer  land  of  the  valley  I  went  on  farther  north.  It 
so  happened  that  I  reached  the  place  I  had  selected 
soon  after  five  in  the  morning.  There  was  no  station — 
only  a  half  dozen  little  homes  and  two  or  three  small 
dilapidated  stores,  and  a  white  schoolhouse  that  stood 
by  itself  off  a  quarter  of  a  mile  on  the  open  unfenced 
prairie.  A  streak  of  yellow  above  the  serrated  peaks 
of  an  endless  chain  of  snowy  mountains  in  the  east  gave 
promise  of  the  dawn.  On  the  telegraph  lines  perched 
a  twittering  group  of  linnets.  Near  by  was  a  box 
freight  car,  and  while  I  stood  looking  around  me,  a 
tramp  slid  out  of  the  car,  shouldered  his  bag  and  went 
off  along  the  track;  but  on  the  outskirts  of  the  settle- 
ment he  stopped,  built  a  little  fire,  and  I  suppose  cooked 
himself  some  sort  of  a  breakfast. 

I  walked  out  on  the  prairie.  Here  and  there  I  could 
see  scattered  houses — rather  forlorn-looking  places, 
most  of  them,  and  usually  with  no  thought  whatever 
bestowed  on  appearances.  The  plain  was  perfectly 
treeless,  except  that  an  occasional  home  had  about  it  a 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  139 

few  shade  or  fruit  trees,  and  now  and  then  a  cluster  of 
willow  bushes  grew  beside  the  irrigating  ditches.  The 
ditches  conveyed  water  to  some  alfalfa  farms  two  or 
three  miles  away  where  the  soil  was  deeper.  Most  of 
the  land  in  the  neighborhood  was  only  fit  for  grazing, 
and  close  under  the  surface  lay  "hardpan" — a  soft 
sandstone.  At  one  place  I  came  across  men  at  work 
setting  out  fruit  trees.  They  were  on  low  ground 
where  the  soil  had  accumulated  a  little,  but  in  order 
that  the  tree  roots  might  have  a  chance  to  develop 
satisfactorily  the  workers  were  blasting  holes  in  the 
hardpan,  one  for  each  tree.  A  few  horses,  cows  and 
goats  were  staked  out  near  the  village  homes,  and  I 
saw  a  drove  of  black  hogs  munching  along  over  the 
knolls,  and  late  in  the  forenoon  a  vast  flock  of  sheep 
drifted  past. 

A  squad  of  men  from  the  nearest  town  were  plough- 
ing, scraping  and  grading  the  road,  which  heretofore 
had  never  been  turnpiked.  The  soil  was  very  hard, 
and  one  of  the  men  said,  "  It's  rough  on  the  tools.  I  had 
a  new  plough  yesterday  and  in  three  hours  I  wore  the 
point  plumb  out.  I  don't  see  how  these  fellers  that 
keep  store  here  make  a  livin'.  They  never  seem  to  be 
doin'  no  outside  work  and  there's  mighty  few  customers. 
Most  o'  the  time  they  stand  at  the  door  lookin'  for  us 
to  come  in  and  spend  the  money  we  make  on  the  road. 
Yet  they  wear  good  clothes  and  smoke  a  cigaret  once 


140     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

in  a  while.  One  of  'em  has  a  sheep  ranch.  I  guess 
he's  gettin'  along  all  right.  He  had  a  Jim  Dandy  little 
wa^on  come  to  him  on  the  train  last  week." 

The  man  now  turned  to  his  work  and  I  went  to  watch 
some  boys  not  far  away  who  were  gathered  around  a 
small  pond  grabbing  for  pollywogs.  They  said  they 
were  going  to  use  them  for  fish  bait,  and  they  had 
started  to  tell  me  about  their  luck  in  fishing  when  the 
bell  in  the  schoolhouse  cupola  gave  a  few  jingles. 
At  once  the  boys  dropped  the  pollywogs  and  scudded 
away  across  the  prairie  to  the  temple  of  learning. 

For  the  sake  of  variety  I  went  in  to  have  a  look  at  one 
of  the  stores.  It  was  not  much  more  than  a  shanty 
and  the  supply  of  goods  was  very  meagre.  "Billy" 
McDonald  was  the  proprietor.  I  found  him  a  good 
deal  disturbed  because  his  horse  was  missing.  "  I  left 
her  loose  in  the  stable  last  night,"  said  he,  "and  she 
got  out  and  has  gone  back  to  town  where  I  bought  her 
not  long  ago." 

A  customer  came  in.  He  was  a  stranger  who  hap- 
pened to  be  driving  through  the  place  and  he  wanted 
to  purchase  some  soap.  Billy  seemed  surprised.  He 
didn't  carry  such  an  article  in  his  stock.  "Neither 
did  the  other  store,"  he  explained.  So  the  customer 
bought  a  glass  of  whiskey  instead. 

Later  in  the  day  I  again  took  the  train  and  was  soon 
in  a  region  more  favored.     Indeed,  in  my  memory  of 


A  Vale  of  Plenty  141 

the  valley  I  see  little  else  than  a  constant  succession  of 
orchards  and  vineyards  and  great  wheat  fields  and 
luxuriant  pastures.  But  the  homes  did  not  seem  in 
keeping  with  nature's  affluence.  Many  were  unpainted, 
unshadowed  and  shabby  and  small,  and  looked  as  if 
in  the  heat  of  summer  they  would  be  blistered  off  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Few  were  such  as  we  in  our  older 
Eastern  states  would  consider  at  all  attractive  or  com- 
fortable. That  the  Vale  of  Plenty  should  have  its 
imperfections  is  to  be  expected;  and  on  the  other  hand 
its  attractions  are  many,  and  there  lies  before  it  a  future 
full  of  promise. 

Note. — The  San  Joaquin  Valley  is  one  of  the  great  agricultural 
basins  of  the  world.  It  is  two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  long  by  about 
fifty  wide.  In  it  grows  half  the  wheat  raised  in  the  state,  and  wheat 
farms  of  ten  thousand  to  fifty  thousand  acres  are  not  uncommon. 
Here,  too,  you  may  see  thousands  of  acres  of  alfalfa,  vast  vineyards, 
and  astonishingly  large  orchards  of  prunes,  peaches,  apricots,  figs 
and  other  fruits.  It  produces  nearly  all  the  raisins  of  the  United 
States,  and  fabulous  crops  of  asparagus,  potatoes,  beans  and  melons; 
and  it  is  famous  for  its  cattle,  sheep  and  hogs.  Stop  at  any  of  the 
chief  towns,  such  as  Visalia,  Fresno,  or  Stockton,  and  journey  out  into 
the  surrounding  country  and  see  what  is  being  done.  Irrigation  is 
the  chief  dependence  for  producing  crops,  and  water  for  this  purpose 
is  abundant. 

Another  attraction  of  the  valley  is  the  excursions  that  can  be  made 
from  it  into  the  Sierras.  Best  of  all  is  a  visit  to  the  Vosemite,  but 
scarcely  less  interesting  is  a  trip  to  the  wild  canyon  of  King's  River. 
This  latter  journey  is  made  from  Visalia,  partly  by  stage,  partly  by 


142     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

pack  and  saddle  train.  The  gorge  lacks  the  waterfalls  of  the  Yosemite, 
and  its  walls  are  not  so  precipitous,  but  they  rise  into  even  wilder  and 
more  stupendous  heights.  On  account  of  snow  and  flooded  streams 
July  and  August  are  the  best  months  for  the  trip.  To  add  to  the  fasci- 
nation of  this  jaunt  you  have  close  at  hand  Mount  Whitney,  the  loftiest 
mountain  in  the  United  States,  if  we  except  the  Alaskan  giants.  It  is 
easily  ascended  from  the  west  side.  The  streams  are  full  of  trout,  and 
game  abounds.  Still  another  attraction  of  the  region  is  the  General 
Grant  National  Park  containing  many  of  the  famous  big  trees. 


§ 

GO 

—J 


The  road  to  the  mountains 


VII 

APRIL    IN    THE    YOSEMITE 

FROM  the  San  Joaquin  Valley  I  went  by  a  branch 
railroad  to  Raymond  far  back  in  the  Sierra 
foothills.  The  journey  was  delightful.  Every- 
where were  flowery  fields  and  pastures,  and  at  times 
the  wastelands  were  fairly  covered  with  radiant  blossoms. 
Some  of  the  patches  and  streaks  of  bloom  were  blue, 
some  purple,  some  white,  and  still  others  were  a  blaze 
of  reds  and  yellows.  The  poppies  were  perhaps  the 
most  abundant  and  striking,  but  there  were  multitudes 
of  delicate  bluebells,  and  there  were  "nigger  toes"  and 
"popcorn"  and  dainty  snowdrops  and  "little  Johnnies" 
and  many  more. 

Raymond  is  a  half  wild  little  village  with  some  fine 
rough  hills  and  ravines  about,  but  no  sign  of  grand 
mountains  or  big  trees  or  charming  waterfalls.  The 
Yosemite  was  still  distant  a  two  days'  stage  drive.  It 
was  the  opening  of  the  season  and  visitors  were  few. 
Only  two  others  went  on  when  I  did.  They  were  an 
elderly  man  and  wife.  But  the  stage  also  carried 
several  men  who  were  going  to  the  Valley  to  work,  one 

143 


144     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

of  them  a  Chinaman  cook,  another  a  blacksmith 
known  as  "Hank,"  and  a  third  whom  his  comrades 
addressed  as  "Bud."  The  stage  was  a  three-seated 
top  wagon,  and  I  sat  on  the  front  seat  between  the 
driver  and  the  blacksmith. 

Hour  after  hour  we  went  on  climbing  among  the  rough, 
stony  hills.  They  were  not  very  interesting.  Every- 
where were  granite  boulders  and  scattered  oaks  gar- 
landed with  mistletoe,  and  now  and  then  would  occur  a 
scrawny  pine.  In  places  there  was  much  undergrowth 
such  as  sagebrush,  chaparral,  buckeye,  and  a  bushy 
lupine  that  was  loaded  with  purple  blossoms.  Then,  too, 
there  were  great  patches  of  poison  oak,  each  shrub  a 
reddish  mass  of  new  foliage.  "You  want  to  be  careful 
how  you  walk  through  that,"  advised  the  driver; 
"though  some  people  ain't  affected  by  it  at  all.  It 
don't  trouble  me  none,  and  I've  monkeyed  with  it  for 
forty  years — walked  through  it,  handled  it,  and  even 
had  it  in  my  mouth." 

Grass  was  so  plentiful  that  the  driver  remarked,  "  I 
would  just  like  to  be  a  cow  for  the  next  three  months. 
I'd  be  sure  to  have  all  I  wanted  to  eat,  and  I'd  have 
nothing  to  do  only  to  lie  around.  But  by  the  end  of 
June  the  grass  will  be  dried  brown,  and  the  pasturing 
won't  be  so  pleasant.  Still,  that  brown  grass  ain't  bad; 
for  it's  like  hay  and  is  all  right  till  we  have  rains  to 
wash    the    goodness   out.      We    are    likely   to    get    wet 


April  in  the  Yosemite  145 

weather  in  October,  and  then  the  cattle  have  a  hard 
time.  But  if  the  rains  come  early  in  the  fall  the  new 
grass  soon  starts.  If  the  rains  are  late  the  dry  feed  is 
destroyed  and  the  new  doesn't  get  a  chance  to  take  its 
place.     So  the  cattle  half  starve  all  winter." 

In  the  valleys  were  occasional  little  farms  or  the 
homes  of  ranchmen,  and  presently  the  elderly  man  on 
the  back  seat  pointed  to  one  of  these  and  said,  "It 
seems  to  me  that  the  people  who  live  there  must  lead  a 
lonely  life." 

"Oh,  no,"  responded  the  driver,  "they  can  drive  to 
town  in  fortv  minutes;  but  then,  they  don't  go  there 
very  often  because  they're  afraid  of  the  cars." 

We  frequently  saw  birds.  Red-headed  woodpeckers 
were  working  away  on  the  dead  trees  and  the  telegraph 
poles,  and  blue  jays  and  linnets  were  common.  Once 
I  got  a  glimpse  of  a  robin,  and  there  were  a  few  hawks 
and  soaring  buzzards.  The  driver  called  my  attention 
to  a  quail  standing  under  a  bush,  and  said,  "These 
foothills  are  full  of  them  in  the  fall." 

Several  times  we  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
ground  squirrel  scudding  to  shelter.  The  blacksmith 
claimed  these  squirrels  were  good  to  eat,  but  the  driver 
declared  they  were  no  better  than  rats.  "Well,"  said 
the  blacksmith,  "cook  'em  properly  and  they're  good 
enough  for  anybody." 

"Some  people  eat  rattlesnakes,"  observed  the  driver. 


146     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"  If  I  was  going  to  eat  one  I'd  want  to  kill  it  myself," 
the  blacksmith  said.  "You  know  if  you  only  just 
wound  one  it  will  bite  itself  where  it  was  hurt  and  fill 
its  flesh  full  of  poison. 

In  a  number  of  spots  along  the  way  were  rubbish 
dumps  of  dirt  and  broken  stone  where  some  old  gold 
mine  had  been  worked,  and  the  lady  passenger  wished 
she  could  get  out  and  hunt  for  a  "nudget."  We  passed 
through  Grub  Gulch  which  contains  a  mine  still  in 
operation,  and  in  the  rough  mountain  hollow  was  a 
rude  little  hamlet.  The  mine  is  not  of  much  account; 
but  in  the  booming  days  that  followed  its  discovery 
there  was  a  wild  and  lawless  community  here.  "They 
used  to  have  a  man  for  breakfast  every  little  while," 
declared  the  driver. 

Now  and  then  we  met  a  team,  and  among  the  rest 
were  several  wagons  loaded  with  apples  that  left  a 
trail  of  delicious  fragrance  behind  them.  Later  we 
saw  the  orchards  in  the  secluded  mountain  glens,  and 
I  asked  the  driver  if  the  fruit  was  profitable.  He  said, 
"That  depends  on  the  man  who  raises  it  and  on  cir- 
cumstances. The  fellow  that  handles  this  orchard  we 
are  passing  has  hard  scratching  to  make  ends  meet,  and 
he's  close  as  a  mosquito,  too;  but  some  do  very  well." 

Much  of  the  way  the  road  clung  to  a  steep  hillside. 
It  was  narrow  and  crooked,  and  on  the  outer  side  looked 
dangerously    precipitous.       When    teams    approached 


fex 


April  in  the  Yosemite  H7 

each  other  the  drivers  shouted  a  warning  and  were 
apt  to  stop  to  consider  just  how  to  pass.  The 
broadest  place  possible  was  selected  and  one  team 
crowded  up  to  the  bank  while  the  other  drove  gingerly 
along  on  the  verge.  Our  own  experience  was  mild 
compared  with  what  it  would  have  been  later  in  the 
season  when  the  five-span  freighting  wagons  were 
running. 

We  were  constantly  encountering  streams.  They 
were  seldom  bridged  and  we  splashed  straight  across. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  them,  for  they  were  not  like  the 
muddy  streams  of  the  lowlands,  but  were  clear  and 
sweet,  with  stone-strewn  courses  down  which  they 
leaped  and  foamed  with  unceasing  melody.  The  road 
was  more  or  less  muddy,  but  the  driver  assured  us  that 
the  first  thirty  miles  of  our  journey  were  decidedly 
pleasanter  than  they  would  be  in  summer.  Then  there 
would  be  dust  and  torrid  heat.  "Why,"  said  he,  "it 
gets  so  hot  that  the  wagon  tongues  hang  out.  I've  seen 
the  thermometer  up  to  118  in  the  shade." 

One  of  the  things  that  adds  zest  to  the  stage  trip  is 
the  possibility  of  a  hold-up.  In  the  past  these  hold-ups 
have  occurred  about  once  in  four  years.  The  previous 
season  a  highwayman  had  relieved  a  load  ot  tourists 
of  their  purses,  but  did  not  take  their  jewelry  or  watches. 
He  apologized  for  the  annoyance  he  was  causing  and 
said  he  didn't  like  to  have  to  resort  to  such  a  practice, 


148     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

but  he  needed  the  money.  When  the  collection  had 
been  finished  an  English  tourist  got  out  his  camera 
and  said  to  the  desperado,  "I'd  like  to  take  your  pic- 
ture, you  know." 

"Certainly,"  was  the  reply,  "go  ahead,"  and  he 
submitted  to  the  photographing  very  gracefully  and 
then  departed. 

The  hold-up  that  preceded  this  one  was  an  affair  of 
more  consequence.  There  were  five  stages  going  up 
the  valley  that  day,  one  behind  another,  and  a  single 
man  held  them  all  up  right  in  a  bunch.  He  was  a  little 
particular,  and  when  he  thought  a  man  had  not  turned 
over  to  him  as  much  money  as  he  carried,  he  ordered 
his      victim    to    "dig     up    some    more."  But     he 

was  not  without  a  touch  of  ceremonial  politeness,  for 
he  presented  each  of  his  benefactors  with  his  card  on 
which  was  printed  the  words,  "The  Black  Kid." 
At  length  his  work  was  completed  and  he  took  to  the 
brush  and  was  seen  no  more. 

We  stopped  once  in  ten  or  twelve  miles  to  change 
horses,  but  this  made  little  delay  as  the  horses  were 
harnessed  and  waiting  for  us.  The  longest  pause  was 
twenty  minutes  at  the  station  where  we  had  our  noon 
lunch.  After  this  lunch  the  blacksmith,  as  he  settled 
himself  in  his  place,  smacked  his  lips  and  declared  that 
the  cream  pie  he  had  eaten  for  dessert  was  the  finest 
pie  of  any  sort  he  had  ever  tasted.     "The  only  fault  I 


April  in  the  Yosemite  149 

have  to  find,"  said  he  in  conclusion,  "is  that  the  cook 
is  too  good  a  mathematicianer  and  cuts  his  pies  into 
too  many  pieces." 

By  mid-afternoon  we  had  passed  the  foothills,  and 
ahead  of  us  lay  a  mountain.  Bud  informed  the  driver 
that  he  was  going  to  get  out  and  "  hike  "  for  a  while,  and 
when  he  alighted  the  blacksmith  and  I  joined  him. 
The  trees  had  become  more  numerous  and  there  were 
many  tall,  handsome  yellow  pines.  Bushes  were  fewer, 
but  in  places  the  ground  was  hidden  by  a  low  evergreen 
growth  of  bear  clover.  "The  bears  don't  eat  it,"  said 
the  blacksmith,  "but  it  smells  like  'em." 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Bud,  "it  smells  just  like  a  wet 
dog;  and  if  you  walk  through  it  for  an  hour  or  two  in 
summer  you'll  have  that  smell  on  your  clothes  for  the 
rest  of  your  life." 

Just  then  the  blacksmith  found  a  horseshoe  in  the 
road  and  he  hung  it  up  on  a  bush.  "That'll  bring  me 
good  luck,"  he  remarked. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  was  Bud's  comment. 
"I've  quit  hangin'  'em  up  lately  because  I  noticed  I 
got  drunk  as  a  lord  every  time  I  did  it." 

As  we  climbed  upward  the  ground  became  increas- 
ingly muddy  and  slippery,  and  at  length  patches  of 
snow  were  to  be  seen  here  and  there  in  the  woodland. 
These  were  larger  and  more  frequent  as  we  went  higher 
until  the  mantle  of  white  was  everywhere.     The  sky 


150     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

had  gloomed  over  and  it  began  to  storm,  a  mixture  of 
rain  and  sleet.  Now  we  arrived  at  a  rough  shanty  and 
barn  where  the  stage  was  to  change  horses.  What  a 
wintry  wilderness  it  was! — white  roofs  and  a  giant 
evergreen  forest  roundabout,  gloomy  and  mysterious 
with  the  cold  storm. 

When  the  stage  came  we  walkers  got  in  and  tucked 
the  blankets  tightly  about  us  and  everyone  prepared  for 
a  disagreeable  journey;  but  shortly  the  mists  drifted 
away  and  the  sun  shone  into  the  shaggy,  dripping 
woodland,  and  brightened  the  dark  foliage  and  the 
brown,  rough-barked  tree  trunks.  The  driver  seemed 
anxious  about  his  return  trip  on  the  morrow.  "Gee! 
this  snow'll  be  frozen  then,"  he  said,  "and  it'll  be  slick 
as  glass.  The  brakes  won't  hold  and  I'll  have  a  lot  o* 
trouble  to  keep  the  wagon  from  runnin'  onto  the  horses." 

We  presently  passed  over  the  top  of  the  mountain 
ridge  and  were  in  really  magnificent  forest  that  man 
had  never  devastated.  The  trees  grew  to  full  maturity 
and  died  and  fell  to  enrich  the  mountain  mould  for 
future  generations  just  as  their  ancestors  had  before 
them  from  time  immemorial.  Many  of  the  sugar  and 
yellow  pines  and  cedars  were  four  to  six  feet  in  diameter, 
and  they  often  towered  up  fully  two  hundred  feet.  It 
was  a  satisfaction  just  to  look  at  their  straight  and 
towering  boles.  The  noblest  of  the  trees  and  those  most 
prized  by  the  lumbermen  were  the  sugar  pines.    Speci- 


The  To  Semite  Falls 


April  in  the  Yosemite  151 

mens  have  been  found  that  had  attained  a  thickness  of 
twelve  feet  and  were  still  living,  sound  in  every  fiber. 
The  cones  are  very  large  and  handsome.  They  grow  to 
be  from  a  foot  to  eighteen  inches  long  and  beautify  the 
tree  and  ground  beneath  for  months  after  the  seeds 
have  taken  wing.  The  tree's  name  comes  from  a  sweet 
gum  that  exudes  from  the  heart-wood  where  wounds 
have  been  made  either  by  forest  fires  or  the  ax.  The 
gum  takes  the  shape  of  irregular,  crisp  clusters  of 
kernels.  When  fresh  it  is  perfectly  white  and  delicious. 
In  descending  the  mountain  it  was  quite  necessary  to 
hold  on.  The  wheels  cut  through  the  snow  in  a  very 
uncertain  way,  and  we  thumped  and  jolted  and  shook 
about  in  a  manner  that  was  very  disturbing.  The  lady 
on  the  seat  behind  was  constantly  cautioning  her  hus- 
band to  hang  on  to  her,  even  if  her  arm  was  getting 
blistered  with  his  clutch.  When  her  side  of  the  vehicle 
tipped  up  she  begged  him  to  hurry  and  shift  as  near  her 
end  of  the  seat  as  possible  to  keep  the  balance.  When 
it  went  the  other  way  she  had  him  slide  back  to  his 
side.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do  to  act  as  ballast  she 
was  certain  at  times  we  were  going  over.  "Oh,  oh!" 
she  exclaimed  as  we  passed  safely  through  one  crisis, 
"what  foolishness  to  come  all  this  way  and  over  such 
poor  and  dangerous  roads  just  to  see  a  little  scenery 
that  we  may  not  care  for  after  all!  I  told  you  we  would 
regret  it,  but  you  were  bound  to  come." 


152     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Once  when  the  driver  let  the  horses  break  into  a  trot 
along  the  verge  of  a  precipice  she  ordered  him  to 
"Stop!"  and  added  in  an  aside  that  she  had  never  seen 
such  reckless  driving.  Gradually  we  had  left  the  snow 
behind  and  now  we  were  much  of  the  time  dragging 
along  in  the  mud.  Darkness  came,  but  at  last  we  saw 
the  lights  of  the  tiny  settlement  of  Wawona  ahead  and 
came  out  into  a  clearing  in  the  valley  basin,  and  there 
was  our  hotel  with  shelter  and  warmth  and  food. 

The  ground  was  stiff  with  frost  the  next  morning,  the  air 
crisp  and  clear.  We  were  on  the  road  at  seven  and  were 
soon  climbing  another  mountain,  snugging  along  the 
slope  and  creeping  in  and  out  of  the  ravines.  Deer 
tracks  were  frequent  in  the  highway  mud,  and  these  set 
the  Yosemite  workers  who  were  on  the  stage  to  telling 
their  experiences  in  hunting  the  animals,  and  they 
pointed  out  this  place  and  that  along  the  trail  where 
they  had  shot  one  or  more.  We  were  on  a  government 
reservation  where  hunting  was  against  the  law,  and  from 
May  to  October  a  hundred  of  Uncle  Sam's  cavalry 
were  stationed  at  Wawona  to  see  that  the  law  was 
enforced.  But  after  the  cavalry  left,  the  huntsmen 
banged  away  very  much  as  they  pleased.  While  the 
soldier  guardians  were  present  they  exercised  some 
degree  of  restraint,  yet  the  efficiency  of  the  troops  was 
generally  rated  pretty  low.  According  to  a  state  official 
whose  headquarters  were  in  the  Yosemite  they  were 


April  in  the  Yosemite  153 

worse  than  useless.  "I'll  give  you  an  instance,"  said 
he.  "  Five  soldiers  caught  one  of  the  fellows  that  lives 
in  these  parts  out  hunting  and  they  started  for  camp 
with  him.  But  on  the  way  a  deer  crossed  their  trail, 
and  every  one  of  the  soldiers  shot  at  it  and  missed. 
'Give  me  my  gun,'  says  the  prisoner,  'and  I'll  kill  the 
deer  for  you,  if  you  want  me  to.' 

"So  they  gave  him  his  gun  and  he  brought  down  the 
deer.  'Well,'  they  says,  'you  can  keep  your  gun  and 
hike  out.' 

"Yes,  sir,  these  soldiers  kill  any  quantity  of  game 
and  they've  fished  out  every  stream  and  lake  in  this 
region.  Before  them  Arabs  got  in  here  we  had  some 
of  the  finest  fishing  in  the  Sierras. 

"Once  the  captain  told  me  he  was  going  to  bring  his 
cavalry  up  to  camp  in  the  Valley.  Him  and  I  locked 
horns  right  there  and  the  soldiers  didn't  come.  Thunder 
and  lightning!  I  have  no  use  for  their  sort,  and  there's 
too  much  red  tape  and  pompousness  about  the  whole 
management.  The  captain  has  got  to  come  down  off 
the  roost  if  he  wants  to  do  business  with  me.  Any 
bulldozing  proposition  won't  go. 

"We  had  a  fire  on  the  reservation  last  summer  and 
it  burned  for  six  weeks  and  ran  over  a  territory  thirty- 
five  miles  square.  For  the  whole  six  weeks  the  Valley 
was  full  of  smoke,  and  the  tourists  who  come  didn't 
get  to  see  hardly  anything  at  all.     The  fire  very  near 


154     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

burned  up  the  soldiers'  camp.  They  were  supposed  to 
be  fighting  the  fire;  but  what  class  of  persons  are  they  ? 
A  fellow  with  any  ginger  in  him  wouldn't  take  a  job 
at  thirteen  dollars  a  month.  They  aren't  in  the  army 
to  work.  They  know  how  to  beat  the  game  from  A  to 
Z,  and  for  accomplishing  anything  really  effective  they're 
no  earthly  use.  Their  police  duty  is  a  farce.  Why, 
they're  constantly  getting  drunk  at  Wawona  and  raising 
thunder.  They  make  a  regular  scat-house  of  the  place. 
This  fire  I  was  speaking  of  was  altogether  too  much 
for  them.  They  didn't  know  how  to  handle  it,  and  they 
didn't  care  to  exert  themselves  much  anyhow.  It's 
said  that  some  of  them  would  burn  a  space  around 
themselves  and  then  lie  down  and  have  a  sleep.  By 
and  by  the  fire  got  up  into  my  region  and  I  took  ten 
men  and  in  three  days  put  the  whole  thing  out.  With  a 
dozen  of  these  California  foothill  boys  I  can  do  every- 
thing five  hundred  of  the  soldiers  and  a  brigadier- 
general  in  command  of  'em  could  do,  and  a  blamed 
sight  better.  They  are  supposed  to  keep  cattle  and  sheep 
off  the  reservation,  but  there's  men  who  will  feed  a 
flock  of  sheep  all  around  those  soldiers.  Give  me  a  few 
local  rangers  and  I'd  nab  every  herder  that  sticks  his 
nose  across  the  line.  Geewhizacar!  I'd  catch  more 
trespassers  in  six  months  than  they  would  in  a 
hundred  years." 


April  in  the  Yosemite  155 

The  stage  toiled  on  till  we  were  again  in  the  white 
winter  woods.  As  we  climbed  higher  the  snow  grew 
deeper  and  in  some  places  a  passage  had  been  shovelled 
through,  leaving  walls  on  either  side  half-way  to  the  top 
of  the  stage.  Finally  we  reached  a  little  station  over 
six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  level.  It  was  in  a  small 
clearing,  with  the  dark,  serrated  woods  all  about,  and 
it  was  fairly  buried  in  drifts  eight  or  ten  feet  deep. 
A  narrow  channel  had  been  dug,  and  a  little  space 
cleared  before  the  barn.  We  ate  a  hasty  lunch  and 
were  soon  on  the  road  again,  wallowing  through  the 
snow  and  pitching  about  in  the  most  exciting  manner, 
always  with  a  vague  fear  that  the  vehicle  might  chance 
to  turn  over  and  send  us  to  destruction  down  the  moun- 
tain side. 

In  time  we  came  to  where  we  could  look  down  on 
the  famous  Valley — a  long  winding  crevice  bounded  by 
mighty  cliffs  and  peaks  of  many  varying  forms.  How 
quiet  and  protected  it  did  look  after  all  those  savage 
inhospitable  heights  and  hollows  we  had  traversed! 
But  the  thing  that  made  it  most  attractive  was  a  slender 
waterfall  dropping  over  the  face  of  one  of  the  giant 
bluffs — dainty,  fairy-like  and  giving  the  otherwise  sober 
landscape  a  touch  of  lightness  that  was  very  fascinating. 
This  fall  was  the  keynote  of  the  scene  through  all  the 
long  descent  to  the  valley  bottom.  It  was  the  Bridal 
Veil,  dashing  down  for  nine  hundred  feet,  a  mass  of 


156     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

foam  and  spray,  and  as  we  drew  near  we  saw  shreds  of 
rainbow  painting  the  mists.  Across  the  valley  the 
driver  pointed  out  another  waterfall,  but  a  very  tiny 
one,  which  he  said  was  called  "The  Maiden's  Tear." 

"That's  a  very  curious  name,"  said  the  lady  passen- 
ger.   "Why  do  they  call  it  that  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  so  far  from  the  Bridal  Veil,"  replied 
the  driver. 

The  valley  is  about  seven  miles  long  and  nowhere 
much  exceeds  a  mile  in  width.  Nearly  all  of  it  is  per- 
fectly level,  some  of  it  open  meadows  and  pastures,  but 
mostly  thinly  wooded  with  tall  pines  and  cedars  and 
firs  intermingled  with  occasional  deciduous  trees  or 
groves.  A  small  river,  rapid  and  rocky  and  crystal 
clear,  wended  its  way  through  the  vale,  and,  all  along, 
the  great  cliffs  soared  skyward  in  many  a  vast  buttress 
and  pinnacle.  It  was  a  wilderness  valley,  and  yet  it 
was  so  level  and  secluded  and  so  hedged  about  by 
protecting  mountains  that  it  seemed  a  spot  of  eternal 
calm  and  serenity. 

The  Yosemite  was  first  seen  by  white  men  in  Janu- 
ary, 1 85 1.  For  some  time  previous  there  had  been 
friction  with  the  Indians  on  the  mountain  borders; 
but  the  first  serious  quarrel  occurred  when  six  Indians 
visited  a  trading-post  thirty  miles  west  of  the  Valley, 
and  a  drunken  ruffian  from  Texas,  without  any  reason- 
able cause,  stabbed  to  the  heart  the  chief  of  the  party. 


April  in  the  Yosemite  157 

The  other  five  savages  at  once  shot  the  Texan  to  death 
with  their  bows  and  arrows,  and  retreated  to  the  forest. 
Two  nights  later  a  pack  of  sixteen  mules  was  stolen 
from  the  trading-post  corral  by  the  Indians  and  driven 
off  to  the  mountains. 

These  happenings  occasioned  great  excitement  among 
the  whites.  It  was  midwinter,  yet  a  company  of  about 
one  hundred  men  from  the  vicinity  armed  themselves 
and  started  on  the  trail.  The  Indians  had  gone  to  the 
Yosemite  canyon  where  they  converted  the  mules  into 
jerked  meat,  and  there  the  frontiersmen  surprised  them 
and  slaughtered  a  large  number.  It  was  a  massacre 
that  included  men,  women  and  children.  The  whites 
were  revenged  and  they  left  the  Valley.  But,  though 
they  were  the  true  discoverers  of  the  famous  spot  it 
was  only  made  known  to  the  outside  world  by  an  expe- 
dition that  went  on  a  similar  raid  two  months  later. 
Those  who  took  part  in  this  second  foray  had  a  rough 
time  in  the  snowstorms  and  deep  drifts  of  the  mountains, 
and  when  they  reached  the  Valley  they  found  no 
Indians  except  one  old  squaw.  However,  the  scenery 
so  impressed  certain  members  of  the  party  that  their 
descriptions  of  it  aroused  very  wide  interest  in  its 
marvels. 

The  Valley  is  supposed  to  have  been  given  its  peculiar 
character  by  a  convulsion  that  caused  the  rock  mass 
filling  the  space  to  sink  to  some  unknown  depth.     For 


158     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

a  vast  period  of  time  the  waste  from  the  sides  of  the 
cliffs  dropped  into  this  abyss,  which  was  doubtless 
occupied  by  a  lake  of  surpassing  beauty.  But  at  length 
the  hollow  was  filled  sufficiently  by  the  falling  rocks 
and  by  the  soil  the  streams  brought  from  the  regions 
surrounding  so  that  the  lake  became  the  present  alluvial 
valley. 

Half  way  up  the  glen  is  a  village  consisting  of  a  two- 
story  wooden  hotel  and  its  annexes  and  several  photo- 
graph studios,  a  store,  a  tiny  church  and  a  few  dwellings. 
The  hamlet  looked  strangely  lost  with  the  tremendous 
heights  towering  around.  Just  beyond  a  meadow  the 
Yosemite  Fall  drops  over  from  the  crest  of  a  rock  wall 
twenty-six  hundred  feet  high.  How  slender  and 
beautiful  it  is!  and  how  amazing  its  long  leap!  It 
brightens  the  whole  vicinity  and  relieves  the  somber- 
ness  of  the  ragged  mountainous  cliffs,  and  the  air 
resounds  with  its  mellow  roar.  It  is  characteristic  of 
the  canyon  that  you  have  the  music  of  the  waterfalls 
in  your  ears  wherever  you  go,  while  the  great  rock  walls 
loom  about  with  a  constantly  changing  sky-line.  Of 
course,  not  all  visitors  are  satisfied,  and  one  man  said 
to  me,  "These  mountains  around  the  Valley  are  all 
right,  but  I  don't  think  much  of  the  waterfalls,  after 
seeing  Niagara." 

As  well  say  a  humming  bird  is  not  beautiful  because 
you  have  seen  an  eagle. 


April  in  the  Yosemite  159 

Up  at  the  far  end  of  the  valley  where  it  narrows  and 
you  look  ahead  into  a  wild  wooded  defile,  is  Mirror 
Lake.  This,  however,  scarcely  deserves  its  name;  for 
the  only  time  it  is  apt  to  be  quiet  is  before  sunrise.  Soon 
afterward  the  wind  sucks  down  the  valley  and  the  sur- 
face is  broken  with  waves  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Trails  lead  to  the  top  of  all  the  important  bluffs  and 
peaks,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  a  person  could  climb  to 
his  heart's  content.  But  to  some  people  a  trail  is  too 
prosaic  and  they  like  the  glory  of  going  up  where  there 
are  difficulties  and  danger.  In  a  recent  summer  an  old 
Alpine  climber  named  Bailey  and  a  young  companion 
decided  to  follow  up  a  steep  crevice  along  the  wrall  of 
El  Capitan  to  the  summit  of  that  king  of  cliffs.  It 
proved  a  very  arduous  task,  and  the  younger  man 
several  times  urged  the  elder  to  return;  but  the  latter 
was  determined  to  go  on.  They  were  nearly  to  the  top, 
and  Bailey,  who  was  ahead,  sat  down  on  a  ledge  and 
reached  his  staff  to  assist  his  comrade.  Suddenly  he 
toppled  over  and  bounded  along  down  the  rocky  slope. 
The  young  man  saw  him  disappear,  and  to  calm  his 
nerves  he  seated  himself  and  smoked  a  cigaret.  He  did 
not  dare  to  descend,  and  when  he  rose  he  struggled  up 
to  the  summit  and  followed  the  trail  down  to  the  hotel. 
Helpers  promptly  returned  with  him  carrying  a  number 
of  long  ropes,  and  after  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  they 


160     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

recovered  the  body  of  Bailey  about  seven  hundred  feet 
below  where  he  fell. 

The  winter  residents  of  the  Valley  number  only  about 
thirty,  but  in  summer  the  village  expands  wonderfully. 
Hundreds  of  tents  are  put  up  to  serve  as  homes  for 
campers  and  the  place  is  very  populous.  Formerly 
this  was  a  "tin  can  town"  just  as  are  most  California 
hamlets — that  is,  the  street  and  neighborhood  were 
strewn  with  the  rusty  receptacles  of  canned  goods  which 
enter  largely  into  the  Western  bill  of  fare.  But  now  every 
dweller,  temporary  or  permanent  is  compelled  to  bury 
his  old  tins.  It  seems  a  pity  that  the  buildings  should 
be  so  uncomely  and  cheap,  and  one  regrets  the  ugly 
wooden  or  iron  bridges,  so  artificial  and  out  of  keeping 
with  the  landscape.  The  bridges  might  well  be  arches 
of  the  native  stone,  simple  and  permanent,  that  would 
make  the  scenes  of  which  they  are  a  part  more  beautiful 
instead  of  less  so. 

When  my  visit  came  to  an  end  and  I  rode  out  of  the 
Yosemite  it  was  with  many  a  lingering  and  half-regretful 
backlook  as  we  climbed  the  mountain,  and  left  behind 
that  vale  of  enchantment  with  its  mighty  environing 
heights  and  delectable  waterfalls.  Two  ladies  sat  on 
the  box  seat  with  the  driver,  who  was  unusually  youth- 
ful, intelligent  and  entertaining.  They  were  discussing 
the  timidity  of  travellers,  and  the  driver  said,  "I  have 
had  ladies  riding  on  this  seat,  who,  when  the  wagon 


April  in  the  Yosemite  161 

gave  a  bad  jolt,  would  holler  and  grab  hold  of  me." 

"You  liked  that,  didn't  you?"  said  the  lady  next  to 
him. 

"Well,  not  while  I  was  drivin',"  he  responded.  "I 
wouldn't  object  some  other  times,  perhaps." 

"I  suppose  you  do  have  some  funny  people  on  the 
stage,"  the  lady  remarked. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "there  was  a  trip  last  summer  I 
carried  a  load  that  was  all  women,  and  every  one  of 
'em  was  an  old  maid,  and  always  would  be.  The 
youngest  of  the  lot  must  have  been  thirty-five  or  forty." 

"That's  not  so  very  old,"  the  lady  interrupted. 
"There's  plenty  of  chances  for  her  yet." 

"Well,"  was  the  driver's  response,  "all  I  can  say  is, 
if  she's  goin'  to  marry  she'd  better  get  a  move  on  her. 
Those  old  maids  was  at  me  to  tell  'em  a  story,  or  give 
'em  a  conundrum;  and  finally  I  says,  'Why  is  it  that 
an  old  maid  likes  to  go  to  church  early  ?' 

"They  couldn't  tell,  and  I  said,  'Because  she  wants 
to  be  sure  to  be  there  when  the  hymns  are  given  out.' 

"They  said  I  was  awful  to  give  such  a  conundrum  as 
that,  but  it  pleased  'em  all  the  same." 

"Were  those  old  maids  from  the  East  ?"  inquired  the 
lady. 

"Yes,  there  ain't  none  out  here,"  replied  the  driver. 
"Our  girls  all  marry,  and  there's  not  enough  to  go 
around." 


162     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

'You  are  not  married,  are  you?"  queried  the  lady. 

"Oh,  I  was  taken  long  ago,"  he  responded.  "Get 
up,  Humpy;  go  on  Smoke!"  said  he  cracking  his  whip 
over  the  backs  of  the  front  horses. 

"What  are  the  names  of  the  other  two?"  the  lady 
questioned. 

"Coon  and  Toothpick,"  he  replied. 

Each  of  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  horses  on  the 
route  has  its  name  and  its  individuality,  but  I  think  the 
names  of  our  four  had  more  than  the  average  of  pic- 
turesqueness. 

Frorm  Wawona,  where  we  arrived  in  the  afternoon, 
I  made  a  side  trip  to  see  the  big  trees.  This  necessitated 
an  eight-mile  climb  up  a  mountain  side;  for  the  trees 
love  a  high  altitude.  The  road  had  only  just  been 
opened  through  the  snows,  and  once  our  stage  got 
stuck  in  a  drift.  Considerable  digging  had  to  be  done 
before  the  struggling  horses  could  drag  us  free.  As  we 
were  toiling  slowly  along  the  driver  asked  us  if  we  had 
ever  seen  one  of  their  black  California  rabbits.  We 
never  had. 

"Why,  there's  one  now,"  he  said,  pointing  on  ahead. 

Sure  enough,  there  was  the  rabbit  sitting  on  its 
haunches  alert  and  watchful  close  by  the  road,  and  it 
was  nearly  three  feet  tall.  I  expected  every  moment 
it  would  leap  away,  but  we  continued  to  approach  and 
it  did  not  move  except  that  I  saw  an  eye  blink  and  its 


"a 

'O 


April  in  the  Yosemite  163 

ears  waggle  a  trifle.  We  were  all  very  much  excited 
over  the  sight  and  were  exclaiming  softly  to  one  another 
when  lo!  we  suddenly  realized  that  the  rabbit  was 
nothing  but  a  remnant  of  a  burned-out  stump  which 
chanced  from  a  certain  view-point  to  have  the  outline 
of  a  rabbit. 

When  we  were  well  up  on  the  height  we  changed 
to  a  sleigh  and  at  last  we  came  to  the  forest  giants. 
They  are  in  the  midst  of  heavy  woodland  and  are 
scattered  among  trees  of  various  other  species,  many 
of  which  are  themselves  of  magnificent  girth  and 
height;  but  the  sequoias  stand  out  distinctly.  Their 
reddish  brown  bark  is  unlike  the  bark  of  the  rest  of  the 
trees  in  texture  as  well  as  color,  and  the  larger  trees  far 
exceed  in  size  any  of  their  comrades  not  of  the  same 
family.  They  differ  also  from  the  balance  of  the  forest 
in  having  dome-like  tops  instead  of  pointed  ones.  Most 
of  them  are  sadly  scarred  about  the  base  by  fire;  but 
the  charred  crevices  and  hollows  date  far  back  and  are 
said  to  be  due  to  a  habit  the  Indians  had  of  letting  fires 
run  through  the  woodland  to  clear  it  of  undergrowth 
and  make  easier  travelling  and  hunting. 

The  most  venerable  and  the  largest  member  of  the 
clan  is  the  "Grizzly  Giant."  It  is  supposed  to  be  over 
five  thousand  years  old,  and  its  immense  size,  its 
shattered  and  dead  top  and  gnarled  limbs  make  it  look 
like  the  ancestor  of  its  race.     The  tree  is  ninety-three 


164     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

feet  in  circumference,  and  its  first  limb,  a  hundred  feet 
from  the  ground,  has  a  diameter  of  six  feet.  Many  of 
the  sequoias  have  broken  and  bare  tops,  but  this  is  the 
work  of  storms  rather  than  age.  Even  when  a  big  tree 
falls  the  end  is  still  far  off";  for  the  wood  does  not  decay 
readily  at  heart,  and  the  wasting  away  from  the  out- 
side is  very  slow.  Trees  that  were  thrown  down  before 
the  Pilgrims  landed  at  Plymouth  Rock  are  in  the  Sierra 
forests  today  with  wood  in  them  as  sound  and  bright 
in  color  as  it  was  in  their  prime.  Most  full-grown  trees 
are  not  much  over  twenty  feet  in  diameter  and  about 
two  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  in  height.  But  the 
giants  of  the  race  go  up  fifty  feet  more.  The  trees, 
except  for  accidents,  seem  to  lack  little  of  being  immortal. 
They  live  on  indefinitely  until  cast  down  by  storms, 
burned,  killed  by  lightning  or  destroyed  by  man. 

The  fruitfulness  of  the  sequoias  is  marvelous.  The 
cones  are  only  about  two  inches  in  length  but  the 
branches  hang  full  of  them  and  each  is  packed  with 
two  or  three  hundred  seeds.  Millions  of  seeds  are 
ripened  annually  by  a  single  tree — no  doubt,  enough  in 
some  cases  to  plant  all  the  mountain  ranges  in  the 
world.  However,  very  few  seeds  ever  get  the  chance 
to  germinate,  and  of  those  that  do,  not  one  tree  in  ten 
thousand  lives  through  the  vicissitudes  that  beset  its 
youth.  Yet  trees  abound  of  all  ages,  from  fresh-starting 
saplings  to  those  in  the  glory  of  their  prime,  and  the 


April  in  the  Yosemite  165 

giant  trees  seem  abundantly  able  to  maintain  their  race 
in  eternal  vigor. 

The  day  following  this  visit  to  the  big  trees  I  returned 
to  Raymond;  and  it  was  not  so  prosaic  a  change  from 
the  wonderland  where  I  had  been  as  might  have  been 
expected.  Indeed,  it  was  a  real  delight  to  descend  from 
the  wintry  mountains  and  to  gradually  find  the  spring 
about  us — at  first  only  faint  hints,  but  finally  a  green 
earth,  and  new  leafage  on  the  trees  and  abounding 
blossoms,  and  the  birds  flitting  and  singing. 

h',  Note — The  Yosemite  season  lasts  from  early  April  until  October 
though  it  is  now  possible  to  go  at  any  time  of  the  year  without 
serious    discomfort.  The   cold    and   the    heavy   snowfall    on   the 

mountains  are  the  chief  deterrents  to  winter  visits.  The  best 
months  are  May  and  June  when  the  falls  are  full  of  water,  and  there 
is  no  dust.  The  entire  control  of  the  Park  has  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  United  States  government  since  I  visited  the  valley.  A  railroad 
has  also  been  built  to  the  borders  of  the  Park  from  Merced  making 
access  easy  and  cutting  down  the  stage  ride  to  about  sixteen  miles. 
It  is,  however,  best  to  go  one  way  by  the  old  route  in  order  not  to  miss 
seeing  the  wonderful  big  trees  at  Wawona. 


VIII 

AROUND    THE    GOLDEN    GATE 

THE  situation  of  San  Francisco  makes  it  a 
logical  metropolis.  It  has  one  of  the  largest 
harbors  in  the  world,  and  there  is  no  other 
that  can  in  the  least  rival  this  between  San  Diego  and 
Puget  Sound.  Besides,  the  bay  and  its  rivers 
give  an  admirable  opportunity  for  extensive  and  cheap 
water  commerce  inland,  and  the  great  fertile  valleys 
which  open  away  toward  the  interior  are  naturally 
tributary  to  the  city  that  guards  the  Golden  Gate. 
The  city  is  built  on  about  a  dozen  hills  which  add 
greatly  to  its  picturesqueness.  It  turns  its  back  on 
the  sea,  and  its  wharves  front  the  bay  easterly.  The 
name  which  designates  the  passage  from  the  Pacific 
into  the  harbor  was  applied  by  Fremont  in  1848,  and 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  gold-bearing  districts. 
"Golden"  referred  to  the  fertility  of  the  country  on  the 
shores  of  the  bay. 

The  settlement  of  the  place  dates  back  to  1776  when 
the  Franciscan  Friars  established  a  Mission  here.  The 
Mission  was  in  the  center  of  the  peninsula,  half  way 

166 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  167 

between  the  sea  and  the  harbor.  For  over  fifty  years  it 
was  the  nucleus  of  quite  a  village,  and  the  community 
in  its  prime  had  a  population  of  five  hundred  Indians 
and  Mexicans.  Another  settlement  was  presently 
established  on  the  shore  of  the  bay  for  commercial  pur- 
poses and  came  to  have  a  considerable  trade  in  hides 
and  tallow. 

In  January,  1848,  James  W.  Marshall  discovered 
gold  while  digging  a  ditch  for  a  sawmill  about  forty-five 
miles  northeast  of  Sacramento.  This  caused  tremendous 
excitement  in  San  Francisco  and  two  thirds  of  the 
population  left  for  the  new  region  of  promise.  Lots  in 
the  city  sold  for  one  half  what  they  were  worth  a  month 
before;  but  the  necessities  of  life  began  to  get  scarce  in 
the  gold  camps,  and  some  of  the  miners  returned  to 
San  Francisco  and  prepared  to  profit  through  the  rapid 
increase  of  business  that  was  sure  to  come.  The  large 
finds  of  gold  in  the  interior  brought  an  inrush  of  new- 
comers and  the  population  early  in  1849  was  two 
thousand.  By  July  it  was  five  thousand,  and  this 
number  doubled  the  following  year.  Between  April 
and  December  1849  over  five  hundred  vessels  arrived 
bringing  thirty-five  thousand  passengers.  As  many 
more  immigrants  came  overland;  but  the  great  ma- 
jority found  their  way  with  little  delay  to  the  mines. 
Such  was  the  eagerness  to  share  in  the  golden  fortune 
that  scores  of  vessels  lay  in  the  harbor  unable  to  pro- 


1 68     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

ceed  farther  for  want  of  sailors  because  the  crews  had 
deserted  in  a  body  almost  as  soon  as  the  anchors  were 
dropped.  Some  of  these  vessels  eventually  rotted 
where  they  were  moored.  Others  were  hauled  up  on 
the  beach  to  serve  as  storehouses,  lodging-houses  and 
saloons.  For  a  long  time  several  of  them,  flanked  by 
buildings  and  wharves,  and  forming  part  of  a  street, 
were  original  features  of  the  town. 

Money  in  the  period  of  sudden  growth  was  scarce, 
and  gold  dust  was  the  principal  medium  of  exchange. 
During  1848  the  monthly  yield  of  gold  in  California 
averaged  three  hundred  thousand  dollars,  in  1849  a 
million  and  a  half,  in  1850  three  million.  Prices  of 
labor  and  all  supplies  were  very  high.  Flour  was  forty 
dollars  a  barrel,  butter  ninety  cents  a  pound,  a  loaf  of 
bread  fifty  cents,  a  hard  boiled  egg  one  dollar.  A  tin 
pan  or  a  wooden  bowl  cost  five  dollars,  and  a  pick  or  a 
shovel  ten  dollars.  But  laborers  received  a  dollar  an 
hour,  and  in  spite  of  the  cost  of  living  everybody  made 
money. 

Bayard  Taylor  who  visited  San  Francisco  at  this 
time  says  that,  "Around  the  curve  of  the  bay  hundreds 
of  tents  and  houses  appeared,  scattered  all  over  the 
heights  and  along  the  shore  for  more  than  a  mile.  On 
every  side  stood  buildings  begun  or  half  finished,  and 
the  greater  part  of  them  were  canvas  sheds  open  in 
front,  and  with  signs  in  all  languages.    Great  quantities 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  169 

of  goods  were  piled  in  the  open  air  for  want  of  a  place 
to  store  them.  The  streets  were  full  of  people  hurrying 
to  and  fro,  and  of  as  diverse  and  bizarre  a  character  as 
the  houses." 

The  winter  season  of  1849  an<^  I^5°  was  veI7  rainy> 
and  the  streets,  which  had  not  as  yet  been  either  graded 
or  paved,  became  simply  impassable.  In  many  places 
wagons  would  sink  to  the  wheel-hubs,  and  the  animals 
were  sometimes  so  deeply  mired  they  could  not  be 
extricated  and  were  left  to  die  where  they  were.  Trees 
and  shrubbery  and  boxes  and  barrels  of  goods  were 
thrown  into  the  streets  to  afford  a  passage-way. 

The  city  continued  its  rapid  growth,  and  by  1853 
the  population  had  increased  to  forty-two  thousand. 
With  the  influx  of  treasure-seekers  came  a  motley 
crowd  of  adventurers  from  all  points  on  the  Pacific 
Coast,  Australia  and  the  East,  and  many  of  them  made 
a  living  by  preying  on  their  fellows.  Gambling  jumped 
into  popular  favor,  and  though  stringent  measures  were 
adopted  for  its  abatement  they  did  not  avail.  Fortunes 
were  made  and  lost  in  a  single  day,  and  many  a  miner 
who  came  from  the  interior  to  embark  for  his  home,  by 
trying  to  increase  his  fortune  at  the  gaming  table  found 
himself  penniless  and  obliged  to  return  to  the  mines 
and  begin  all  over. 

There  were  parts  of  the  city  where  even  a  policeman 
hardly  dared  to  go,  and  night  was  made   hideous  with 


170     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

debauchery  and  assaults.  During  the  early  years  of 
the  city's  awakening  many  murders  were  committed  by 
the  desperadoes,  yet  no  one  was  hanged  for  the  crimes, 
and  the  courts  became  a  byword.  The  situation  was 
intolerable  and  in  185 1  the  famous  Vigilance  Committee 
was  organized  in  the  interests  of  law  and  order.  This 
Committee  within  a  month  tried  and  hanged  four  men 
and  banished  thirty  others,  and  the  course  pursued  was 
universally  upheld  by  public  opinion.  Conditions  be- 
came normal  and  the  Committee  ceased  its  labors. 
But  in  1856  crime  had  once  more  become  rampant  and 
the  law  impotent.  The  Vigilants  reorganized  and  acted 
with  the  same  vigor  and  with  the  same  results  as  before, 
and  there  was  again  individual  security  and  public 
order. 

The  history  of  San  Francisco's  beginnings  are 
extremely  interesting  to  anyone  who  visits  the  city  and 
these  strange  happenings  and  conditions  form  a  fasci- 
nating background.  They  were  constantly  in  my  mind 
when  I  was  there  early  in  1906  and  added  much  to  the 
significance  of  what  I  saw.  For  a  place  of  its  size  I 
was  surprised  to  find  so  much  of  it  built  of  wood.  Of 
course  certain  fine  residences  and  many  of  the  big 
business  blocks  were  of  material  more  permanent  and 
substantial,  but  even  in  the  commercial  heart  of  the 
town  wooden  structures  were  plentiful,  while  in  the 
residence    sections    redwood    dwellings    were    almost 


A  glimpse  of  the  shipping 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  171 

universal.  I  wondered  what  would  happen  if  a  big 
fire  got  started,  and  mentioned  this  thought  to  a  native. 
He,  however,  assured  me  that  I  need  have  no  appre- 
hension on  that  score;  for  they  had  the  finest  fire 
department  in  the  world,  and  no  fire  could  get  beyond 
control. 

Another  feature  of  the  city  that  engaged  my  attention 
was  its  weather.  Someone  had  told  me  that,  "with  its 
rains  and  fogs  and  rough  winds  San  Francisco  has 
about  the  meanest  climate  that  ever  a  man  set  foot  in." 
I  suppose  there  is  a  modicum  of  truth  in  the  statement, 
but  during  my  stay  the  weather  was  rather  fine.  If  we 
had  rain  it  came  at  night,  and  though  there  was  often 
fog  and  gloom  in  the  early  morning  the  sun  presently 
broke  through.  Then  followed  a  period  of  dreamy 
calm,  but  later  the  wind  came  blustering  in  from  the 
sea  and  for  much  of  the  afternoon  blew  with  uncom- 
fortable violence.    This  seemed  to  be  the  daily  program. 

The  city's  fame  as  a  seaport  drew  me  early  to  the 
wharves.  Everywhere  here  for  miles  were  ships  loading 
and  unloading,  and  I  found  toil  and  din  and  smoke  and 
dubious  smells  no  matter  whither  I  wandered.  Against 
the  sky  was  a  dense  forest  of  tapering  masts  with  their 
network  of  rigging,  and  here  and  there  were  stout 
steamer  funnels  belching  soot  and  fumes.  The  great 
drays  banged  and  rattled  along  over  the  rough  pave- 
ments, there  was  clanking  of  chains,  the   panting  of 


172     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

engines,  the  shouts  of  men.  Loafers  strolled  about  or 
roosted  on  piles  of  boards  and  other  chance  seats,  and 
children  and  sight-seers  mingled  with  the  rest  of  the 
crowds,  all  drawn  by  the  allurement  of  the  sea-going 
ships  and  the  varied  activity.  It  was  a  rude  region, 
and  the  business  buildings  which  fronted  toward  the 
wharves  were  dingy  and  forbidding.  Saloons  were  pre- 
dominant, and  these  endeavored  to  interest  the  public 
by  the  individuality  of  their  names,  as  for  instance,  the 
North  Pole,  the  Castle,  the  Tea  Cup,  Life  Saving 
Station  and  Thirst  Parlor,  The  Fair  Wind,  and  Jim's 
Place. 

Whatever  else  the  stranger  in  San  Francisco  missed 
seeing  he  was  sure  to  visit  the  Chinese  quarter.  Here 
was  an  oriental  community  of  fifteen  thousand  in  the 
heart  of  the  city.  It  occupied  an  area  of  about  ten 
square  blocks.  No  space  was  wasted,  and  besides  the 
main  thoroughfares  there  were  many  narrow  byways 
running  in  all  directions  and  lined  with  little  places  of 
business.  Often  the  buildings  were  curiously  orna- 
mented and  made  resplendent  with  many-colored  paints 
and  big  paper  lanterns,  but  the  majority  were  battered 
and  aged  and  grimy. 

The  first  Chinese  to  arrive  in  California  came  on 
the  brig  Eagle  in  February,  1848.  They  were  two  men 
and  one  woman.  Within  the  next  two  years  about  five 
hundred  came,  and  by  1852  there  were  eighteen  thous- 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  173 

and.  Large  numbers  went  direct  to  the  mines  where 
they  worked  for  a  few  cents  a  day.  The  enmity  aroused 
by  their  competition  in  the  labor  market  resulted  in 
exclusion  laws,  and  latterly  their  numbers  have  been 
decreasing.  Naturally,  therefore,  the  racial  bitterness 
which  the  Americans  have  felt  toward  the  Mongolians 
is  somewhat  allayed.  Yet  harsh  feeling  is  still  to  be 
encountered,  and  one  man  enlightened  me  thus: 

"They  ought  to  be  kept  out — every  one  of  'em.  Go 
to  the  farming  country  and  watch  how  they  manage  on 
their  ranches  workin'  all  the  time,  night  and  day,  and 
Sundays,  rain  or  shine.  A  white  man  has  no  show 
against  them — not  a  particle.  When  it  comes  to  dis- 
posing of  what  he  raises,  the  Chinaman  sells  every  time 
he  starts  out  to  make  a  trade.  Ask  him  the  price  of  a 
bunch  of  beets. 

"  '  Five  cents,'  he  says. 

"  'Too  much,'  you  say. 

"He  picks  up  another  bunch  and  says,  'Here,  two 
bunches  for  five  cents  today;'  and  you  take  them. 

"A  Chinaman  knows  how  to  accumulate  the  cash. 
He  will  come  into  this  country  with  nothing  and  go 
away  with  a  bag  of  money  as  long  as  your  arm. 

"In  the  city  they  crowd  into  the  smallest  quarters 
and  eat  the  cheapest  food.  Let  them  keep  coming  and 
they  would  take  all  the  work  and  absorb  all  the  wealth 
there  is  here;    and  we  ain't  keepin'  'em  out  either  in 


174     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

spite  of  our  laws.  One  way  or  another  they  are  con- 
stantly sneaking  in.  Each  Chinaman  has  to  be  photo- 
graphed to  identify  him,  but  they  all  took  alike,  and  if 
you  catch  one  of  those  that  have  slipped  in,  he'll  show 
a  photograph  of  some  other  Chinaman,  and  you  can't 
tell  but  that  it  is  of  him. 

"They  are  a  thrifty  people  and  an  honest  people,  I'll 
say  that  for  them.  They  stand  by  their  bargains  and 
always  pay  when  they  say  they'll  pay.  I'd  rather  sell 
goods  to  a  Chinese  merchant  than  an  American  so  far 
as  finance  goes.  Some  are  millionaires.  But  they 
don't  help  develop  the  country.  They  don't  invest  here. 
All  their  money,  sooner  or  later,  goes  back  to  China, 
and  it's  a  big  drain.  That  ain't  where  we're  goin'  to 
get  hit  the  worst,  though.  The  Chinese  who  do  us  the 
most  harm  are  those  that  come  to  look  around  or  to 
study.  You  see  the  Chinamen  are  cracker-jacks  to 
imitate.  Give  'em  the  chance  and  they'd  steal  all  our 
ideas  about  machinery  and  how  to  do  things  in  a  modern 
way.  Then  they'd  go  back  to  China  and  start  their 
manufactories,  and  we  wouldn't  be  in  it  at  all. 

"There's  no  other  race  to  which  there's  the  same 
objection.  Lots  of  Mexicans  come  in,  and  they're  kind 
of  a  mean,  treacherous  class  that  don't  like  us  any  better 
than  we  like  them;  but  they're  lazy  and  shiftless,  and 
their  competition  don't  count.  Then  there's  Indians. 
I  ain't  got  no  objection  to  them.     The  fact  is  they're 


A  main  thoroughfare  in  Chinatown 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  175 

nearer  of  kin  to  us  than  the  Chinese,  a  good  sight. 
The  world  has  only  three  race  divisions.  There's  the 
Caucasian,  the  Ethiopian  and  the  Mongolian.  The 
Indian  ain't  a  Mongolian,  is  he  ?  and  he  ain't  an 
Ethiopian.     So  he  must  be  a  Caucasian." 

I  found  a  few  of  the  Chinatown  shops  large  and  fine, 
and  the  goods  in  them  were  often  expensive,  rare,  and 
delightfully  original  and  charming  in  design.  But  for 
the  most  part  the  shops  were  small  and  not  by  any 
means  prepossessing.  Usually  they  had  open  fronts, 
and  much  of  the  stock  was  displayed  on  the  sidewalk, 
and  the  walks  were  also  made  use  of  for  the  conducting 
of  many  minor  industries  such  as  cobbling  and  tinker- 
ing. I  loitered  about  for  hours  watching  the  strange 
scenes.  The  people  with  their  yellow  visages  and 
unfamiliar  garments  looked  as  if  they  had  been  exhumed 
from  some  prehistoric  past.  The  men  mostly  wore 
black  or  dark  blue.  Often  the  women  wore  these  colors 
likewise,  but  a  good  many  had  clothing  as  gay  as  a 
rainbow,  and  so  did  the  children.  The  women  went 
about  bareheaded  and  their  garments  consisted  of  large 
loose-fitting  blouses  with  huge  sleeves  and  a  pair  of 
trousers  of  equally  generous  proportions. 

The  inhabitants  included  some  persons  of  refinement 
and  learning,  and  a  considerable  number  of  keen  and 
successful  business  men;  but  the  larger  part  were  of 
the  lower  class.    This,  I  suppose,  is  the  reason  why  the 


176     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

women  usually  had  normal  feet;  yet  once  in  a  while  I 
saw  one  stump  along  with  feet  that  seemed  to  be  non- 
existent. 

In  various  places  were  walls  pasted  over  with  hiero- 
glyphic notices  and  bulletins,  nearly  all  printed  on  red 
or  yellow  paper,  and  the  passers  often  paused  to  read. 
There  was  always  an  absorbed  group  in  front  of  a 
trinket  stand  where  some  colored  Japanese  battle 
pictures  were  displayed.  No  space  in  the  buildings  was 
wasted,  and  the  occupants  were  much  given  to  burrow- 
ing about  underground.  The  filth  of  the  basements 
had  formerly  been  superlative;  but  of  late,  by  order  of 
the  city,  every  cellar  had  been  supplied  with  a  cement 
floor.  The  shopkeepers  seemed  very  busy,  yet  some- 
times I  would  see  one  taking  his  ease  and  smoking  his 
long  pipe  in  contemplative  peace  and  satisfaction,  or  I 
would  see  a  group  standing  about  a  table  at  the  back  of 
their  cavernous  little  place  of  business  eating  with  their 
chop-sticks  and  drinking  tea.  Every  butcher  had  an 
entire  roasted  hog  hung  up  from  which  he  cut  portions 
as  they  were  wanted.  Some  of  the  meat  and  dried  fish 
and  vegetables  looked  very  uncanny.  I  often  could  not 
tell  what  the  things  were,  but  I  did  recognize  on  sale  in 
one  shop  a  chicken's  feet  minus  the  skin. 

Almost  every  kind  of  business  was  represented  in 
Chinatown.  They  even  had  a  bookstore,  and  they 
published    a    daily   newspaper.      Barbers'   shops   were 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  177 

numerous,  for  every  man  had  his  head  shaved  about 
once  a  week;  and  when  you  looked  into  the  tonsorial 
establishment  you  perhaps  saw  the  barber  making  the 
job  thorough  by  shaving  the  inside  of  the  subject's  ears. 
One  very  busy  alley  was  largely  given  up  to  the  sale  of 
fish.  The  stores  were  full  of  the  finny  merchandise, 
the  narrow  walks  were  almost  covered,  and  numerous 
great  shallow  baskets  spread  with  fish  and  crabs  and 
clams  were  put  on  boxes  along  the  curb  at  either  side  of 
the  street. 

I  went  into  a  joss-house.  In  the  lower  room  was  a 
group  of  men  smoking  (and  gambling,  so  I  was  told). 
Up  above  was  the  room  of  worship,  gorgeous,  but  taw- 
dry. It  was  crowded  with  paraphernalia  and  well 
supplied  with  wooden  images.  Near  by  was  a  fine 
restaurant  occupying  an  entire  building.  The  furnish- 
ings were  very  aristocratic,  and  there  was  much  carving 
and  heavy  oriental  chairs  and  tables.  It  was  run  by  a 
company  of  eight  men,  and  their  safe  in  one  corner  of 
an  eating  apartment  had  eight  padlocks  on  it.  Each 
partner  carried  the  key  to  his  individual  padlock,  and 
the  safe  could  only  be  opened  when  all  were  present. 

Another  place  I  visited  was  the  underground  shop  of 
an  "inventor,"  as  he  called  himself.  But  his  inventions 
were  more  curious  than  original.  They  were  all  rather 
rude  mechanisms  that  did  things  of  no  particular  use. 
One  of  the  oddest  was  an  arrangement  for  reading  by 


178     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

candlelight.  When  you  were  through  you  let  go  of 
your  book  which  was  hitched  to  a  string  from  above, 
and  it  was  drawn  up  out  of  the  way.  At  the  same  time 
the  candle  swung  back  and  an  extinguisher  dropped 
over  it. 

A  somewhat  similar  subterranean  shop  was  occupied 
by  a  very  old  man  who  had  two  mimic  theatres  fastened 
to  his  wall  crowded  with  actors,  one-half  life  size. 
He  would  set  the  mechanism  going  and  the  figures 
would  bob  their  heads  and  move  their  hands  in  a  most 
unearthly  manner.  He  also  had  a  wonder-stone,  a 
polished  disc  about  eighteen  inches  across  and  with 
many  smoky  stains  in  the  rock.  The  old  man  pointed 
out  in  the  stains  a  great  number  of  figures — men, 
women  and  animals;  but  it  was  seldom  I  would  make 
out  the  things  he  said  he  saw. 

There  were  pawn-shops  in  Chinatown,  and  in  the 
windows  you  were  sure  to  see,  among  other  articles, 
several  opium  pipes.  Opium  is  less  used  than  formerly, 
but  opium  dens  still  existed,  and  I  wandered  into  one 
of  them.  Its  entrance  was  at  the  back  of  a  gloomy 
hallway.  Within  was  a  large  apartment  having  a 
double  tier  of  platforms  at  the  sides  on  which  were 
heaps  of  blankets  and  a  few  Chinamen  sleeping  or 
smoking.  One  ancient  was  lying  on  his  side  and 
toasting  a  bit  of  opium  on  the  end  of  a  slender  stick 
over  a  little  lamp.    Then  he  crowded  it  into  the  orifice 


b". 


oq 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  179 

of  his  pipe  and  puffed  away.  Another  fellow  was 
smoking  a  water-pipe— that  is,  drawing  tobacco  fumes 
through  a  one-inch  tube,  two  feet  long,  filled  with 
water.  This  individual  showed  me  various  small 
trinkets  which  he  said  were  very  cheap  because  they 
had  been  smuggled  in  from  abroad  by  friends.  I  he 
Chinaman  is  not  very  particular  about  obeying  laws 
that  he  can  evade.  He  even  holds  slaves — for  one 
alley  was  pointed  out  where,  behind  barred  windows, 
the  women  slaves  of  this  strange  foreign  community 
were  kept. 

My  sojourn  in  San  Francisco  came  to  an  end  at  length, 
and  one  evening  in  the  early  dusk  I  crossed  the  bay 
to  go  on  by  train  to  other  regions.  From  the  ferry-boat 
I  looked  back  and  saw  the  great  city  with  its  masts  and 
towers  and  heights,  gray  and  beautiful  against  the  glow 
of  the  sunset  sky.  Lights  were  everywhere  a-twinkle, 
and  the  beholder  could  not  but  be  impressed  with  the 
greatness  of  the  city — populous,  rich,  serene  and 
powerful;  and  yet,  one  week  later  came  the  great 
earthquake  and  the  fire  that  reduced  this  metropolis  of 
the  west  coast  to  a  blackened  ruin. 

Note. — The  old  San  Francisco  is  no  more,  but  the  attraction  of  its 
situation  will  always  remain,  and  the  new  tragedy  in  its  stirring  history 
adds  greatly  to  the  interest  of  the  visitor.  At  about  five  o'clock  of 
Wednesday  morning,  April  18,  1906,  occurred  the  first  great  shock 
of  that  elemental  calamity.     It  had  been  a  beautiful  night,  and  the 


180     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Post-Lenten  fever  of  society's  revels  was  at  its  height.  That  night 
the  climax  of  the  Grand  Opera  season  had  been  reached  in  a  magnifi- 
cent performance,  and  never  before  had  there  been  such  enthusiasm 
in  San  Francisco's  musical  world.  The  performance  was  only  con- 
cluded at  midnight,  and  then  for  hours  the  cafes  had  been  gay  with 
the  laughter  and  discussions  of  the  opera-goers.  Even  at  the  time  of 
the  great  shock  some  of  the  revelers  were  still  in  the  streets.  There 
was  a  series  of  shuddering  jerks  and  writhings  of  the  earth,  here  and 
there  a  crash  of  falling  walls,  then  a  profound  silence  for  several  min- 
utes. After  that  was  heard  the  clangor  of  the  gong  on  the  cart  of  the 
fire  chief  as  he  dashed  through  the  heart  of  the  city.  Broken  gas-pipes 
had  started  fires;  but  worst  of  all,  beneath  the  surface  of  the  streets 
the  water  mains  had  been  severed,  and  the  city  was  doomed.  Not 
until  three  days  later  did  the  conflagration  burn  itself  out.  Over  four 
square  miles  of  the  city  were  gone  utterly,  and  property  to  the  value 
of  more  than  a  third  of  a  billion  dollars  had  been  destroyed,  and  the 
larger  portion  of  the  inhabitants  were  homeless  refugees  in  the  public 
parks. 

One  point  in  the  San  Francisco  neighborhood  that  the  traveller 
will  enjoy  visiting  is  the  half-mile  height  of  Mount  Tamalpais  which 
affords  an  excellent  view  of  the  entire  bay  region.  Nor  should  the 
stranger  neglect  the  views  to  be  obtained  from  the  lofty  bluffs  in  the 
city  itself. 

Within  easy  reach  by  railroad,  to  the  south,  is  Santa  Cruz,  the  most 
popular  seaside  resort  of  the  metropolis,  as  well  as  a  notable  summer- 
ing and  wintering  place  for  Eastern  people.  Somewhat  farther  down 
the  coast  is  charming  Monterey,  the  old  capital  of  California  in  the 
days  of  Spanish  rule.  In  a  slightly  different  direction  from  San  Fran- 
cisco is  the  fertile  Santa  Clara  Valley.  Here  is  Palo  Alto,  thirty-four 
miles  from  the  metropolis,  and  most  travellers  will  wish  to  stop  off 
to  see  the  Stanford  University.  This  university  has  an  endowment 
of  thirty  million  dollars,  and  its  buildings,  in  the  Mission  style  of 


Around  the  Golden  Gate  1 8 1 

architecture  with  long  corridors  and  inner  courts  are  the  finest  pos- 
sessed by  any  university  in  the  world.  Sixteen  miles  farther  south  is 
San  Jose  in  the  center  of  the  largest  compact  orchard  on  the  globe, 
with  protecting  mountains  to  shelter  it  from  every  asperity  of  land  or 
sea.  On  one  of  these  mountains  is  the  Lick  Observatory  to  which  a 
stage  makes  a  round  trip  daily. 


IX 


A    NEVADA    TOWN    WITH    A    PAST 

THE  International  Hotel  where  I  stopped  was  a 
big  six-story  building,  imposing  in  size  and  in 
many  of  its  appointments,  but  all  gone  to  seed. 
It  had  been  a  very  grand  affair  when  it  was  erected. 
Its  broad  stairways,  its  heavy  woodwork,  its  great 
windows  with  their  lace  curtains,  its  black  walnut  bed- 
steads and  marble-topped  bureaus,  upholstered  chairs 
and  Brussels  carpets  all  had  an  air  of  antique  luxury. 
Time  was  when  an  apartment  cost  from  two  to  five 
dollars  a  night.  Now  the  prices  are  fifty  cents  and  one 
dollar,  and  everything  is  battered  and  worn,  and  the 
whole  building  is  almost  ghostly  in  its  loneliness,  so  few 
are  the  travellers  who  stop  at  the  once  busy  hostelry. 
A  Chinaman  is  the  landlord,  and  he  goes  himself  to 
meet  the  trains  and  carry  his  patrons'  hand  luggage  up 
the  steep  hill  to  his  hotel.  The  Palace,  the  Occidental 
and  the  other  fine  hotels  have  fared  even  worse  than 
this  one,  and  the  streets  are  lined  with  buildings  that 
in  their  day  were  genuinely  impressive  and  probably 
as  fine  as  any  west  of  the  Rockies. 

182 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  183 

Virginia  City  is  indeed  a  strange  town — a  living 
skeleton.  In  the  height  of  its  opulence  it  boasted  a 
population  of  thirty  thousand.  Today  there  are  less 
than  one  tenth  that  many,  and  dilapidation  and  ruin 
are  seen  on  every  hand.  The  chief  streets  terrace 
along  a  great  hillside.  Farther  up  the  slope  are  wastes 
of  sagebrush  growing  in  stunted  clumps  a  foot  or  two 
high  and  half  hiding  the  earth  with  their  gray  twigs 
and  foliage.  Down  below  is  a  valley  where  the  mines 
have  dumped  vast  heaps  of  waste.  The  entire  region 
is  a  wild  upheaval  of  hills,  and  around  the  horizon  are 
seen  ranges  of  snowy-topped  mountains.  Once  in  a 
while  a  gnarled  scrub  pine  or  dwarf  cedar  occurs,  but 
only  a  few  feet  high.  Formerly  scrub  pines  of  fair  size 
were  plentiful  on  the  hills;  but  they  were  practically 
all  used  for  firewood  long  years  ago.  After  they  were 
gone  some  Chinamen  ran  a  woodyard  and  sold  pine 
roots.  Probably  one  hundred  and  fifty  donkeys  were 
engaged  in  toiling  about  the  uplands  and  bringing  in 
the  stumps  and  roots  of  the  old  scrub  pines.  This 
material,  too,  was  exhausted  presently,  and  now  the 
fuel  comes  by  train. 

If  you  look  attentively  you  discover  a  little  grass 
growing  in  the  sagebrush.  It  gets  a  foothold  about  the 
roots  of  the  brush  and  now  and  then  starts  a  clump  by 
itself.  This  is  bunch-grass.  The  cattle  relish  it  and 
they  nose  about  after  it  where  you  would  at  first  glance 


184     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

think  they  could  find  nothing  more  palatable  than  the 
bitter  sage.  As  the  season  advances  thousands  of  sheep 
roam  over  the  country,  though  the  grass  is  always  too 
scanty  to  make  the  landscape  green. 

In  the  town  are  a  few  poplar  trees,  and  occasionally 
there  are  fruit  trees  in  the  gardens.  But  gardens  are 
scarce  and  small.  There  is  lack  of  soil  and  lack  of 
moisture.  The  streets  are  rough  and  dirty,  and  as  I 
walked  about  I  was  constantly  encountering  old  tin 
cans  and  getting  my  feet  tangled  up  in  wires  from  the 
baled  hay.  On  the  main  street  in  the  busier  portion 
is  an  almost  continuous  roofing  over  the  broad  side- 
walks, and  this  serves  the  stores  instead  of  awnings. 
The  walks  themselves  are  of  plank  that  evidently  date 
back  into  the  town's  ancient  history.  The  knots  and 
spikes  protrude  and  the  rest  is  deep  hollowed  by  the 
passing  of  countless  feet.  Often  streaks  of  sagebrush 
grow  alongside  the  gutters,  and  these  tenacious  shrubs 
establish  themselves  wherever  else  in  the  village  there 
are  spaces  untrodden  and  uncared  for.  Buildings  in 
good  repair  are  rarities.  Those  out  of  plumb  are  com- 
mon, and  some  lean  against  one  another  for  support, 
or  are  braced  by  long  timbers.  There  are  tottering 
fences  and  ragged  walls  and  broken  roofs  and  smashed 
glass,  and  many  windows  and  doors  are  boarded  up. 

As  I  was  rambling  through  the  sagebrush  below  a 
house  on  the  outskirts  an  old  German  came  out  and 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  185 

spoke  to  me.  He  was  very  friendly,  and  he  became 
doubly  so  when  he  learned  that  I  was  from  New  Eng- 
land. "Dot  New  England  haf  caused  me  thirty-four 
years  of  trouble,"  said  he  with  a  humorous  twinkle  in 
his  eyes.  "  It  vas  dere  I  got  mine  wife.  I  suppose  you 
people  back  East  are  thinkin'  we  haf  der  world  by  der 
tail  out  here.  I'm  glad  of  dot.  You  used  not  to  think 
we  vas  much.  But  the  West  haf  been  makin'  some 
progress  dese  late  years.  I  think,  though,  all  of  us 
here  are,  you  might  say,  impregnated  with  minerals, 
and  we  want  to  get  rich  too  fast.  It  would  be  better 
not  to  grab  so  much  for  ourself.  Yes,  although  bein'  of 
a  fiery  political  nature,  I  want  everyone  to  haf  an  equal 
share." 

I  resumed  my  walk  and  a  little  later  stopped  to  chat 
with  a  small  boy  who  was  on  horseback  racing  around 
a  yard.  He  had  an  array  of  bottles  and  cans  full  of 
water  set  on  a  wall,  and  he  would  pick  one  up,  canter 
to  some  other  part  of  the  enclosure  and  deposit  it  on 
a  post.  He  said  he  was  playing  grocer  and  was  deliver- 
ing goods.  I  asked  for  directions  to  Gold  Hill,  and  he 
slid  off"  his  horse  and  went  along  to  show  me  the  way. 
His  name  was  Chester;  "  But  the  boys  have  got  a  nick- 
name on  me,"  he  confided,  "and  call  me  Figs.  My 
father  works  in  a  mine,  but  on  Sundays  he  goes 
prospecting." 


1 86     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

The  search  for  gold  has  resulted  in  tearing  the  country 
all  to  pieces.  Everywhere  the  hills  are  dotted 
with  prospectors'  holes.  From  any  height  you  can  see 
dozens — perhaps  hundreds.  They  suggest  the  burrow- 
ing of  woodchucks  or  prairie  dogs.  There  is  always 
quite  a  heap  of  dirt  and  broken  rock  on  the  downhill 
side.  The  region  along  the  Comstock  Lode  abounds 
too  in  deserted  shafts.  Usually  the  spots  where  had 
been  the  buildings,  and  the  machinery  for  working  the 
abandoned  mines,  are  now  only  marked  by  immense 
dumps  of  waste  with  possibly  a  few  great  foundation 
stones  and  irons.  The  shafts  may  be  filled  up,  or  they 
may  be  partially  open.  Figs  pointed  to  one  of  these 
holes  and  said  a  boy  pushed  him  into  it  and  he  had 
slipped  and  crawled  in  the  darkness  a  long  way.  He 
thought  he  was  lost  and  he  cried;  but  at  last  he  saw  day- 
light ahead  and  he  crept  out  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill. 

Figs  had  a  mania  for  throwing  stones.  He  tossed 
them  down  vacant  shafts  and  heaved  them  at  cows, 
roosters,  water-puddles  and  anything  else  that  happened 
to  catch  his  eye.  He  evidently  did  not  find  life  dull. 
"On  Saturday,"  said  he,  "seven  of  us  kids  are  goin'  to 
the  reservoir  pond  to  have  a  swim.  We'll  like  that — you 
betcher!  There's  ducks  on  the  pond,  and  a  feller  that 
lives  near  it  shoots  'em  and  lets  us  have  'em  three  for  a 
quarter.  We'll  bring  some  home  and  have  'em  for 
dinner  the  next  day." 


A  l  inspector 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  187 

The  village  of  Gold  Hill,  two  miles  from  Virginia 
City,  is  deader,  if  anything,  than  its  neighbor.  There 
is  the  same  dilapidation  and  wreckage,  and  the  same 
canting  walls  and  neglect  of  repairs.  Figs  called 
my  attention  to  the  church  steeple,  and  said,  "That's 
goin'  to  fall  pretty  soon.  It  rocks  like  a  cradle  every 
time  the  wind  blows  hard." 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  hamlet  I  met  a  Scotchman 
who  affirmed  that  his  cabin  was  the  oldest  dwelling  in 
the  region.  It  was  built  in  1867.  The  main  part 
contained  a  single  room,  but  there  was  a  leanto  at  the 
rear  and  a  little  cave  ran  back  under  the  hill.  The 
owner  invited  me  in  to  rest  myself  and  offered  me  a  cup 
of  whiskey,  or,  if  I  preferred,  he  would  make  me  a  cup 
of  tea,  coffee  or  chocolate.  When  we  entered,  a  gray 
cat  departed  through  a  missing  window-pane.  The 
man  said  the  cat  was  his  pardner;  "And  I  don't  want 
any  other,"  he  affirmed.  "If  you  have  a  man  living 
with  you  he  is  too  apt  to  smoke  and  drink  and  read  too 
much  and  not  attend  to  the  cabin  business.  I  been 
spendin'  a  year  or  two  in  the  new  gold  region  at  Tonopah. 
I  had  to  get  away  from  there  on  account  of  my  health. 
It's  a  desert  country  with  not  enough  sagebrush  growin' 
to  shelter  a  jack-rabbit,  and  the  water  is  bad — full  of 
borax,  soda  and  alkali.  The  Tonopah  people  been 
dyin'  like  sheep.  Some  of  'em,  when  they  begin  to  feel 
sick  go  to  Carson  and  boil  a  little  of  the  alkali  out  of 


188     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

their  systems  in  the  hot  springs  that  are  there.  But  I 
come  here,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew  I  was  in  bed  with 
the  pleurisy.  I  had  it  in  good  shape,  and  pretty  near 
died.  The  doctor  said  the  cabin  needed  ventilation 
and  he  ordered  that  window-pane  broke." 

The  cabin  was  very  neat  in  spite  of  its  small  size. 
It  was  on  the  warm  side  of  the  hill  and  so  was  comfort- 
able in  winter,  while  the  cavern  annex  was  "as  cool  as 
an  ice  house"  in  the  hottest  days  of  summer.  In  fact, 
I  judged  that  its  occupant  considered  it  an  ideal  resi- 
dence. He  was  a  prospector,  and  there  had  been  times 
when  he  had  made  so  much  money  he  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  it.  Nevertheless  he  had  lost  it  "twice 
as  fast  as  he  made  it." 

That  evening,  at  Virginia  City,  I  dropped  in  at  the 
office  of  the  paper  on  which  Mark  Twain  began  his 
literary  career  as  a  reporter.  There  was  no  one  behind 
the  counter  in  the  little  front  room,  and  I  went  on  into 
the  type-setting  department — a  high,  grimy  room  with 
type-cases  along  the  sides,  and  walls  bedizened  with 
big  theatre  posters.  I  was  made  welcome,  and  I  sat 
down  by  a  stove  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment.  Two 
or  three  men  were  busy  at  the  type,  and  their  friends 
strolled  in  from  time  to  time  to  look  on,  or  chat,  or  warm 
themselves.  Among  the  rest  was  one  of  the  early ' 
settlers  of  the  region,  and  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him. 
He  looked  as  if  he  had  shared  the  fate  of  the  town.    His 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  189 

overcoat  was  greasy  and  faded,  and  he  hobbled  in 
aided  by  a  cane,  and  his  ragged  beard  was  streaked 
with  tobacco  juice.  I  asked  him  how  the  town  appeared 
when  he  first  saw  it. 

After  lifting  the  cover  of  the  stove  and  spitting  into  the 
opening,  he  replied,  "I  come  here  in  April,  1861,  and  I 
found  just  twenty-nine  houses.  The  most  important 
was  a  small  wooden  hotel  where  you  paid  a  dollar  a 
night  and  furnished  your  own  blankets  and  slept  on  the 
floor.  You  had  to  pay  a  dollar,  too,  for  a  meal  and  it 
was  no  better  than  you  get  here  now  for  twenty-five 
cents.  What  I  counted  as  houses  were  none  of  them 
anything  but  shanties.  Some  of  the  people  were  living 
in  tents,  and  some  had  run  back  a  little  drift  under  a 
hill  and  stretched  over  the  hollow  a  green  hide  for  a 
roof.  The  edges  of  the  hide  were  made  fast  by  laying 
on  rocks.  To  shut  in  the  front  for  the  night  you  hung 
up  a  blanket.     These  dugouts  were  common  for  years. 

"Ore  was  discovered  in  this  region  about  three  miles 
below  by  the  Grosch  brothers  in  1858.  It  was  a  heavy 
black  sulphite  and  in  order  to  find  out  its  value  they 
started  over  the  mountains  for  San  Francisco  to  have 
some  of  it  assayed.  But  the  cold  and  the  snow  were 
too  much  for  them,  and  one  died  on  the  way  and  the 
other  died  afterward  from  the  exposure.  The  ore 
proved  to  be  very  rich  in  silver,  and  some  nephews  of 
theirs  went  back  to  where  it  was  found.     Other  pros- 


190     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

pectors  poked  around  the  neighborhood,  too,  and  in 
1859  two  fellers  named  Mullins  and  Riley  was  lookin' 
at  the  croppings  above  here  on  this  hill  and  discovered 
some  heavy  sort  of  rock  they  didn't  understand.  Corn- 
stock  was  still  farther  up  the  hill,  and  he  see  they'd 
found  something,  and  he  come  and  looked  at  it.  He 
knew  the  ore  was  valuable  and  he  bluffed  'em  into 
givin'  him  a  third  right  in  the  discovery.  They  staked 
out  claims  and  that  was  the  beginning  of  work  here  at 
the  Comstock  Lode.  The  really  productive  part  of 
the  lode  is  only  about  a  mile  long,  and  in  thickness  it 
varies  from  three  or  four  feet  to  over  a  hundred.  How 
deep  it  goes  no  one  can  say,  but  it  doesn't  pinch  out 
as  most  lodes  do  after  going  down  a  short  distance. 

"At  first  there  was  no  very  great  excitement,  but  by 
'61  people  begun  to  come  in  pretty  rapid  on  foot,  on 
horseback,  and  in  teams.  That  next  winter  was  a 
terrible  hard  one.  The  snow  was  so  drifted  wagons 
couldn't  get  in  with  supplies,  and  wood  was  fifty  dollars 
a  cord  and  hay  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  ton,  and 
everything  else  equally  expensive.  But  in  the  spring 
we  had  plenty  once  more.  Until  the  railroad  was  built 
in  1869  our  supplies  come  on  ten  and  twelve-mule 
teams,  and  there  got  to  be  five  lines  of  six-horse  stages 
running  into  town.  The  railroad  was  a  great  job;  for 
it  wound  around  the  mountains,  and  over  the  hills, 
and  through  tunnels  and  all  that;    but  with  the  wealth 


The  tinker 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  191 

there  was  here  they'd  have  built  a  railroad  up  a  tree 
if  necessary. 

"  People  come  faster  than  ever  when  the  railroad  was 
done  and  we  had  here  the  biggest  mining  camp  the 
world  ever  saw.  However,  it  wasn't  the  prospectors 
who  staked  out  the  early  claims  who  made  the  big 
fortunes.  They  sold  out  and  traded  ofF  and  started 
again.  I  knew  Comstock  well.  He  was  a  man  of  some 
education,  big-hearted  and  good-natured — a  man  who 
would  never  do  wrong  to  anyone  except  himself.  An- 
other person  very  much  like  Comstock  was  'Old 
Virginia,'  as  we  called  him,  the  man  this  town  was 
named  after.  I've  seen  those  two  lying  on  the  floor 
under  the  influence  of  liquor  and  the  twenty  dollar  gold 
pieces  rolling  out  of  their  pockets. 

"In  those  days  everybody  had  money.  I  used  to 
make  five  hundred  dollars  a  month  myself.  Part  of  it 
I  earned  as  leader  of  a  brass  band.  There  were  four  of 
us,  and  we  got  twenty  dollars  apiece  to  play  at  a  ball, 
five  dollars  apiece  at  a  serenade,  and  ten  dollars  each 
at  a  funeral.  The  brass  band  was  always  at  the  funerals. 
We  played  a  funeral  march  on  the  way  to  the  cemetery, 
a  dirge  at  the  grave,  and  a  quickstep  comin'  back. 

"One  of  the  first  times  I  ever  saw  Mark  Twain  was 
at  a  ball  where  I  was  playing.  He'd  got  a  little  step- 
ladder  for  a  seat,  and  he  kept  joggling  me  as  he  moved 
it  around  to  get  a  better  sight  of  the  people.    So  I  finally 


192     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

up  with  my  cornet  and  blew  a  blast  in  his  ear.  He  left 
the  hall  then,  and  the  next  day  he  tried  to  get  even  by 
giving  me  a  good  hot  write-up  in  his  newspaper.  But 
we  met  afterward,  and  he  treated  me  to  a  drink  and 
things  were  all  right.  That  was  the  only  time  I  ever 
saw  the  color  of  his  money,  though  I  suppose  he's 
drank  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  worth  of  whiskey 
at  my  expense.  What  he  did  with  the  salary  he  earned 
I  can't  imagine.  I  never  knew  him  to  gamble  nor  buy 
mining  property.  He  had  plenty  of  chances  to  make 
his  fortune,  but  he  was  afraid  to  invest  five  cents. 

"  Most  of  us  were  pretty  easy  in  money  matters. 
If  we  made  a  lucky  strike  we  laid  off  to  enjoy  ourselves. 
A  man  might  be  rich  today  and  dead  broke  tomorrow. 
You  probably  have  met  men  about  town  since  you've 
been  here  who  are  fortunate  now  to  earn  a  living,  but 
who  have  been  worth  a  great  many  thousands  of  dollars. 
Comstock  died  poor.  He  went  to  Montana  where  he 
wound  up  by  putting  a  six-shooter  to  his  ear,  after 
having  returned  to  his  tent  disappointed  in  a  prospect- 
ing tour.  There's  thousands  and  thousands  of  pros- 
pectors' holes  dug  that  never  reveal  any  sign  of  good 
ore,  and  there's  lots  of  mines  that  are  worth  nothing 
except  to  sell  to  Eastern  investors.  The  chance  of  out- 
siders making  anything  in  western  mines  is  pretty  slim. 
If  a  mine  is  a  profitable  property  we  prefer  to  own  it 
ourselves,  and  if  we  sell  stock  in  such  a  mine  it's  usual 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  193 

to  dig  out  some  of  the  best  ore  to  show  and  boom  the 
price  till  we've  disposed  of  what  stock  there  is  for  sale. 
Then  we  work  some  poor  portion  of  the  mine  so  the 
outsiders  think  it  is  worthless  and  sell  back  their  stock 
at  almost  nothing.  Afterward  we  get  at  the  richer 
parts  again  and  make  money  for  ourselves.  I  suppose 
it's  likely,  if  you  were  to  figure  up  the  capital  invested 
which  fails  to  be  profitable,  and  the  unrewarded  labor 
and  the  other  expenses,  it  has  cost  more  to  find  and  get 
the  gold  and  silver  in  this  Western  country  than  the 
metals  mined  have  been  worth. 

"  But  the  possibilities  are  alluring.  To  show  the 
chances — I  knew  two  fellows  from  Indiana  who  rode 
in  here  on  horseback  one  morning,  staked  out  claims, 
and  in  the  afternoon  sold  out  on  the  street  for  three 
thousand  dollars  apiece.  That  was  more  money  than 
they'd  ever  seen  where  they  came  from.  They  thought 
they  was  rich,  and  they  left  for  home.  Another  fellow 
traded  an  old  plug  of  a  horse  for  an  interest  in  a  mine 
and  sold  out  a  little  later  for  four  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  Then  there  was  Sandy  Bowers.  He  got  hold 
of  a  claim  a  few  feet  wide,  and  there  was  a  woman  had 
a  small  claim  joining  his.  They  got  married,  and 
pretty  soon  it  was  found  their  claims  covered  a  little 
mountain  of  gold.  It  was  in  the  hollow  above  the  village 
of  Gold  Hill,  and  that  was  what  gave  the  place  its  name. 
The  gold  was  taken  out  and  Sandy  sold  his   interest, 


194     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

and  was  immensely  rich.  In  order  to  enjoy  his  wealth 
he  built  himself  a  mansion  about  twenty  miles  from 
here  over  in  the  Washoe  Valley — country  where  it  is 
about  as  bare  of  everything  but  sagebrush  as  it  is 
around  Virginia  City,  and  he  became  known  as  the 
'Sagebrush  Croesus.'  He  spared  no  expense  in  putting 
up  his  house,  and  it  was  of  cut  stone  and  cost  half  a 
million.  The  door-knobs  and  hinges  were  of  solid  silver, 
and  there  was  everything  else  to  match.  Most  of  the 
furniture  he  imported  from  Europe  because  there  wasn't 
any  fine  enough  to  be  had  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 
They  had  a  ten  thousand  dollar  library,  though  neither 
Sandy  nor  his  wife  could  read  or  write;  but  the  bindings 
looked  well.  They  bought  an  expensive  piano,  though 
they  knewT  no  more  about  music  than  a  pig  does.  Of 
course  they  had  to  have  what  they  called  statuary, 
even  if  it  was  made  of  plaster-of-Paris.  Whoever  sold 
them  the  stuff  didn't  lose  anything.  When  they  opened 
up  their  house  they  had  a  big  feast  and  invited  all  their 
friends,  and  the  oysters  that  was  served  were  from 
Philadelphia  and  cost  a  dollar  and  a  half  apiece. 

"For  a  time  they  lived  in  grand  style,  as  nearly  as 
they  could  copy  it;  but  they  speculated  in  stocks  and 
lost  all  they  had.  Sandy  died,  and  was  so  poor  at  the 
time  he  hadn't  the  money  to  buy  a  single  silver  hinge 
of  his  fine  mansion.  His  wife  became  a  fortune-teller 
in  San  Francisco,  and  was  called  'the  Washoe  Seeress.' 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  195 

"It's  astonishing,  the  wealth  that's  been  taken  from 
this  little  strip  of  rough  country  here.  One  shaft  alone 
has  yielded  two  hundred  and  seventy  millions.  1  he 
men  that  got  the  bulk  of  the  money  from  that  hole  were 
what  we  speak  of  as  'The  Big  Four' — Flood  and  O'Brien 
and  Fair  and  Mackey.  The  first  two  were  saloon- 
keepers in  San  Francisco,  and  the  others  worked  up 
here  at  the  mines.  They  just  happened  to  invest  in  the 
right  thing,  and  they  hung  on.  Why,  I  remember  when 
Mackey  was  getting  three  dollars  and  a  half  a  day 
while  I  was  getting  four. 

"Very  little  of  the  fortunes  that  have  been  made  in 
the  Comstock  have  been  spent  in  the  state  of  Nevada. 
The  millionaires  prefer  to  live  in  San  Francisco  or 
New  York  or  Europe.  Nevada  furnishes  the  money, 
but  is  left  poor.  However,  for  the  first  few  years  this 
town  was  full  of  wealth.  There  was  gamblers  here 
that  had  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  at  a  time,  and 
if  a  church  was  to  be  built,  or  other  public  work  to  be 
done  they  were  the  heaviest  contributors.  They  made 
their  money  easier  than  anybody  else,  and  they  gave 
more  freely.  But  money  doesn't  stay  with  a  gambler. 
If  he  lives  long  enough  he  ends  in  poverty. 

"  For  some  years  there  was  considerable  lawlessness, 
and  the  fellow  who  could  draw  his  pistol  first  was  the 
best  man.  But,  as  a  whole,  this  was  a  good  place  to  live 
in  then — always  lots  goin'  on  and  the  streets  so  crowded 


196     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

nights  you  could  hardly  get  along.  Everything  was 
prosperous  and  promising  when  in  October,  1875, 
about  five  o'clock  one  morning  a  gentleman  threw  a 
lighted  lamp  at  a  woman  he  had  some  difference  with 
and  unluckily  missed  his  aim  and  set  the  house  on  fire. 
A  gale  was  blowing  and  that  fire  swept  right  through 
the  town  and  burned  all  the  business  section  and  three- 
fourths  of  the  homes,  and  the  churches  and  millions  of 
feet  of  heavy  timber  to  be  used  in  bracing  the  walls  of 
the  mines  when  the  ore  was  taken  out.  The  people  in 
the  burned  district  had  about  all  they  wanted  to  do  to 
escape  with  what  they  had  on,  and  very  little  was  saved. 
For  a  while  no  sort  of  adequate  shelter  could  be  had 
for  most  of  the  homeless,  and  many  families  would  just 
stretch  blankets  over  the  sagebrush  and  crawl  under. 
We  went  to  work  at  once  to  rebuild,  and  forty-five 
trains  a  day  came  in  from  Carson  bringing  grub  and 
supplies.  But  the  city  was  never  the  same  afterward. 
The  buildings  were  thrown  up  in  a  hurry,  and  they 
don't  stand  the  test  of  time.  Pretty  soon  the  town  began 
to  dwindle  down,  and  a  good  many  of  the  mines  were 
abandoned.  As  they  got  deeper  they  became  more 
difficult  to  work,  and  there  was  serious  trouble  with 
hot  water  in  them,  and,  besides,  the  price  of  silver  had 
dropped.  A  few  mines  are  still  in  operation  and  are 
adding  to  their  owners'  wealth,  and  there  is  some 
prospect  that  things  may  be  brighter  in  the  future;  but 
Virginia  City  will  never  again  be  what  it  was." 


Making  firewood  oj  the  sagebrm 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  197 

When  I  left  the  old  mining  camp  I  went  to  Carson,  the 
capital  of  the  state.  The  place  is  on  the  level  floor  of  a 
wide  valley  and  looks  like  a  country  village.  There  is 
some  moisture  here  and  with  the  help  of  irrigation  the 
place  is  an  oasis  amid  the  almost  interminable  barrens 
of  sagebrush  round  about.  The  inhabitants  number 
somewhat  over  two  thousand,  and  there  is  a  long  main 
street  of  small  stores,  hotels  and  saloons,  back  of  which 
are  other  streets  lined  with  residences,  mostly  a  story 
or  a  story  and  a  half  high;  but  the  houses  have  fruit 
trees  and  green  grass  about  them,  and  the  streets  are 
lined  with  Lombardy  poplars  which  guard  the  public 
ways  like  arboreal  sentinels  standing  in  martial  array, 
shoulder  to  shoulder. 

Everyone  talked  mines  and  ore,  and  of  fortunes 
made  and  lost.  Such  talk  was  especially  rife  at  the  time 
of  my  visit  because  there  were  reports  of  a  great  dis- 
covery twenty-five  miles  distant,  where  two  brothers 
by  the  name  of  Ramsey  had  been  prospecting  for  over 
a  year.  We  understood  that  they  had  found  some 
wonderful  ledges  which  assayed  as  much  as  twelve 
thousand  dollars  a  ton.  With  the  first  rumors  men 
from  all  the  region  around  started  for  the  new  El  Dorado. 
It  was  even  said  that  one  of  the  railroad  trains  had  been 
deserted  by  its  crew  who  stampeded  to  the  gold  fields. 
The  spot  was  a  canyon  off  in  the  desert,  and  whoever 
went   had   to   carry   supplies    for   himself  and    horses. 


198     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Teams  were  in  great  demand  and  every  sort  of  a  vehicle 
was  pressed  into  use  to  convey  prospectors  and  their 
outfits  to  the  land  of  promise.  A  two-horse  rig  could  not 
be  had  for  less  than  eight  dollars  a  day.  Two  old 
prospectors  who  went  out  from  Carson  told  me  of  their 
experiences.  They  started  in  the  afternoon  driving  a 
span  hitched  to  a  buggy.  They  had  only  a  general 
idea  of  the  direction,  but  travelled  on  through  the  sage- 
brush till  dark  when  they  camped.  At  daybreak  they 
were  on  the  road  again,  and  now  they  had  plenty  of 
company.  Other  rigs  and  bunches  of  horsemen  and 
men  on  foot  were  constantly  in  sight  trailing  along  the 
valleys  and  over  the  hills,  all  in  a  rush  to  reach  the  gold 
region  in  time  to  pick  up  some  choice  location.  When 
they  got  to  the  camp  they  found  it  consisted  of  a  half 
dozen  tents  and  about  twenty  wagons.  They  lost  no 
time  in  asking  about  the  ore  which  was  half  gold;  but 
they  failed  to  get  any  very  exact  information.  The 
Ramseys  had  nothing  to  say,  and  of  all  the  men  who 
were  tramping  the  hills  and  posting  location  notices, 
not  one  had  seen  a  pound  of  pay  ore  of  any  description. 
It  was  known  however  that  the  Ramsey  brothers  had 
staked  seventy-four  claims.  Some  fellows  of  wide  ex- 
perience said  the  region  resembled  Tonopah,  Goldfield, 
and  all  other  mining  camps  they  had  ever  visited.  But 
one  man  said  it  looked  like  hell  with  the  fire  out. 

The  two  prospectors  tramped  about  forty  miles  that 
day  without  discovering  anything  promising.     Toward 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  199 

evening  they  returned  to  their  outfit  and  camped  in  a 
gulch  near  a  tiny  rivulet,  built  a  fire  of  sagebrush,  made 
coffee  and  were  happy.  For  company  they  had  about 
three  hundred  other  gold-seekers  and  the  narrow  gulch 
was  crowded  full.  A  saloon  man  had  arrived  in  the 
afternoon  with  several  cases  of  whiskey,  and  the  bottles 
had  been  promptly  bought  at  his  own  price.  The  whis- 
key increased  the  hilarity,  and  some  of  the  lads  around 
the  evening  camp  fires  celebrated  by  firing  off  their 
pistols  into  the  air.  Finally  everybody  retired  to  rest 
and  quiet  reigned;  but  about  midnight  a  number  of  the 
horses  got  loose  and  there  was  chasing  around  barefoot 
to  catch  them. 

At  dawn  the  camp  began  to  bestir  itself,  and  the 
two  old  prospectors  were  careful  to  secure  an  early 
supply  of  water  from  the  rivulet.  They  were  none  too 
soon;  for  each  man  as  he  awoke  would  go  and  scrub 
and  dip  water  and  lead  his  horses  to  drink,  and  condi- 
tions in  the  brook  soom  became  very  bad.  That  was 
the  only  available  source  of  supply,  and  the  flavor  of 
soapsuds  and  mud  did  not  improve  it  for  coffee.  Our 
prospectors  did  not  see  much  to  be  gained  by  staying 
longer,  and  they  staked  out  a  couple  of  claims  at 
random  and  returned  to  town.  If  the  excitement 
proved  well  founded  they  still  had  a  chance  for  wealth. 
If  it  did  not,  they  would  be  at  no  further  expense. 
Lacking    new    developments    the    camp    was    sure    to 


200     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

dwindle  very  rapidly.  Thus  far,  in  its  three  days  of 
notoriety,  probably  five  thousand  dollars  had  been 
spent  by  the  prospectors  who  rushed  to  the  canyon, 
while  not  five  cents  worth  of  ore  had  been  brought  away. 

Round  about  Carson,  at  intervals  in  the  valleys,  were 
groups  of  ranch  buildings,  usually  sheltered  by  a  little 
grove  of  cottonwoods.  The  cottonwoods  were  to  some 
degree  a  source  of  fuel  supply  and  were  every  few  years 
cut  back  and  allowed  to  grow  out  again.  However, 
most  of  the  wood  that  was  burned  seemed  to  be  the 
sagebrush.  It  looked  like  poor  stuff,  but  I  was  assured 
it  made  a  hot  fire.  The  stems  were  sometimes  as  large 
as  one's  arm,  though  soon  dividing  into  a  brush  of 
twigs,  and  the  bushes  were  seldom  over  three  or  four 
feet  high.  If  the  farmers  went  back  into  the  mountains 
they  could  get  scrub  pine;  but  they  would  do  this  only 
to  sell  it  in  the  town  where  it  was  worth  nine  dollars  a 
cord. 

In  both  Virginia  City  and  Carson,  Indians  were 
frequently  seen  on  the  streets;  but  they  seldom  appeared 
to  have  any  very  definite  business  there.  It  was  as  if 
they  had  come  to  dream  amid  a  civilization  they  could 
not  comprehend.  Sometimes  several  would  sit  in  the 
sunshine  on  the  curbing  and  stay  purposeless  a  long 
time,  or  a  dozen  or  more  might  gather  in  a  waste  lot, 
some  sitting,  some  lying  down,  some  standing  waiting 
in  a  seemingly  vacant-minded  way  till  the  inclination 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  201 

came  to  go  elsewhere.  The  men's  garments  were 
modern,  and  so  were  the  women's  gowns;  but  the 
feminine  portion  of  the  race,  both  old  and  young, 
delighted  in  gay  shawls,  and  in  bright  colored  kerchiefs 
which  they  wore  over  their  heads.  The  women  were 
fat  and  stumpy  and  moved  along  with  an  awkward 
waddle.  Sometimes  one  would  have  a  papoose  on  her 
back,  strapped  to  a  board  that  had  a  hood-like  projec- 
tion above,  from  beneath  which  the  little  one  looked 
out,  silent  and  watchful. 

On  the  outskirts  of  Carson  amid  the  sagebrush  I 
happened  on  a  little  Indian  village  of  a  half  dozen 
families.  I  approached  one  of  the  houses — a  low,  rude 
shanty,  and  suddenly  a  dog  made  a  rush  and  grabbed 
me  by  the  leg.  I  kicked,  and  a  small  Indian  boy  came 
and  drove  the  cur  around  the  house  with  a  switch. 
Near  the  dwelling  was  an  open-sided  shed  just  large 
enough  to  shelter  the  wagon  which  was  underneath. 
Every  Indian  family  in  the  region  aspired  to  own  a 
wagon.  They  usually  bought  one  second-hand  at  a 
cost  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  dollars,  and  they 
took  better  care  of  it  than  of  any  of  their  other  belong- 
ings. A  wagon  shed  is  perhaps  exceptional,  but  they 
at  least  cover  it  from  the  sun  and  rain  with  sacking. 

Except  for  the  shanty  I  have  mentioned,  the  habita- 
tions of  the  village  were  wigwams — conical  frame- 
works of  sticks  covered  with  canvas.     The  cabin  had  a 


202     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

floor  and  a  stove;  but  in  the  wigwams  the  fire  was  made 
in  the  center  on  the  ground,  and  the  smoke  escaped 
through  a  hole  in  the  peak.  Of  course,  a  good  deal  of 
smoke  lingers  inside,  and  as  a  result  the  older  Indians, 
especially  the  squaws,  are  apt  to  be  blind.  Not  far 
from  each  dwelling  was  a  half  circle  made  by  heaping 
up  sagebrush  in  a  thick  hedge.  This  served  as  a  wind 
break,  and  within  its  shelter  the  squaws  like  to  sit  and 
weave  their  baskets  and  do  other  work. 

A  half  mile  distant  was  a  deserted  camp,  and  for 
many  rods  about,  the  earth  was  strewn  with  boards  and 
sticks,  broken  crockery,  tin  cans,  bottles,  pieces  of 
carpeting,  pots,  pails  and  baskets  and  broken  tools, 
and  there  were  shoes  galore,  the  ruins  of  a  mattress  and 
various  articles  of  clothing.  One  or  two  of  the  wigwams 
were  nearly  complete.  A  man  who  lived  in  the  vicinity 
told  me  that  the  camp  had  been  abandoned  on  account 
of  the  death  of  a  squaw.  "You  see,"  said  he,  "they 
think  that  the  squaw's  spirit  will  be  comin'  back  and 
kickin'  things  over,  and  they  always  move  every  time 
anyone  dies.  They'll  even  leave  a  good  wooden  house. 
Often  they  go  only  a  short  distance,  but  they  wouldn't 
stay  in  the  same  place.  It  seems  to  be  their  idea  that 
the  spirit  will  only  harbor  around  within  a  few  feet  or 
rods  of  the  hut  where  the  person  died. 

"The  Indians  are  queer  in  a  good  many  ways. 
They  don't  like  to  have  their  photographs  taken,  and 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  203 

if  a  person  comes  near  their  homes  with  a  camera  they 
will  go  into  the  hut  and  shut  the  door,  and  they  won't 
poke  their  heads  out  till  the  photographer  goes  away. 
Their  notion  is  that  the  person  who  gets  their  picture 
has  power  to  make  them  do  whatever  he  pleases.  They 
believe  he  could  cause  their  death,  if  he  chose  to. 
There's  a  man  in  Carson  got  a  picture  of  a  papoose, 
and  the  child  died.  He  da'sn't  let  the  Indians  know 
he  has  that  picture.    The  squaw  mother  would  kill  him. 

"They  used  to  think  that  the  white  man's  medicine 
would  be  fatal  to  'em;  and  they  still  depend  to  some 
extent  on  their  own  superstitious  methods  of  healing. 
A  young  squaw  here  lately  had  the  pneumonia.  My 
wife  went  and  see  her  and  said  she  was  pretty  badly  off. 
But  the  medicine  man  come  and  give  her  some  boiled 
herbs,  and  the  Indians  was  there  from  miles  around. 
They  stayed  all  night  and  had  a  devil  of  a  powwow, 
crying  and  hollering  to  keep  the  squaw's  soul  from 
takin'  flight,  and  I'll  be  darned  if  she  didn't  get  well. 

"When  a  white  man  lies  down  to  sleep  he  always 
covers  his  feet  and  keeps  his  head  out;  but,  do  you 
know7,  an  Indian  does  just  the  opposite.  He  covers  his 
head  every  time.  If  he  has  only  a  small  piece  of  blanket 
his  head  will  be  wound  up  in  it,  even  if  all  the  rest  of 
his  body  is  exposed." 

I  mentioned  to  the  man  my  experience  with  the 
Indian  dog,  and  he  remarked,  "Well,  there's  no  serious 


204     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

harm  done.  None  of  the  dogs  out  here  ever  have  hydro- 
phobia. We  don't  know  what  hydrophobia  is.  Why, 
one  of  our  women  was  East  once,  and  she  was  walking 
on  a  town  street  when  she  heard  a  great  racket,  and  a 
man  shouted  to  her  there  was  a  mad  dog  comin'. 
'What's  he  mad  about  ?'  she  says. 

"The  Indians  use  acorns  for  food  a  good  deal.  They 
lay  in  a  store  of  them  in  the  fall,  and  every  few  days 
they  shell  some  and  hammer  the  kernels  on  a  flat  rock 
into  a  kind  of  meal.  Then  they  make  a  low,  level- 
topped  heap  of  dirt,  two  feet  across  with  a  rim  around 
the  edge,  lay  over  it  a  piece  of  cheese  cloth  and  on  that 
put  the  acorn  meal  and  stick  a  little  bunch  of  cedar  up 
in  the  middle.  Meanwhile  they've  got  some  water 
boiling  and  they  pour  it  on.  It  takes  the  bitterness  out 
of  the  nuts,  and  the  cedar  gives  the  meal  a  flavor  that 
they  like.  That  done  they  boil  the  meal  for  a  time  and 
then  dip  out  the  dough,  a  big  spoonful  at  a  time,  and 
drop  it  into  a  dish  of  hot  grease.  They  gave  my  wife 
one  of  these  acorn  doughnuts,  but  I  couldn't  get  up  the 
appetite  to  taste  it  myself. 

"The  women  help  in  the  town  at  housework.  They're 
not  very  steady  and  come  and  go  as  they  please.  The 
men  do  better.  If  you  pay  them  regularly  and  don't 
scold  them  they're  pretty  faithful.  But  they  won't 
contract  to  stay  with  you,  and  if  the  notion  takes  them 
to  go  ofF  a  week  fishing,  they  go.     The  amount  they'll 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  205 

do  in  a  day  compares  very  favorably  with  what  any 
other  class  of  laborers  would  accomplish.  By  gosh! 
when  they  work,  they  work,  and  I  doubt,  for  instance, 
if  there's  many  white  men  can  hook  out  potatoes  as 
fast  as  they  do. 

"They  always  camp  where  sagebrush  is  plenty,  but 
they  don't  seem  to  care  how  far  they  have  to  pack  water. 
The  Indians  earn  considerable  money,  and  the  young 
fellows  all  wear  good  clothes.  Most  of  the  men  like  to 
gamble,  but  they  do  it  principally  among  themselves, 
and  as  a  rule  they  put  what  they  earn  to  good  use. 
However,  they  are  wasteful  in  not  takin'  care  of  what 
they  have.  Furniture  and  household  goods  of  all  sorts 
they  leave  around  wherever  it  happens  to  suit  them,  and 
the  things  get  rained  on,  or  dried  up  with  the  sun  or 
spoiled  in  some  other  manner  and  then  are  thrown  away. 
They  are  more  particular  to  protect  their  wagons  than 
anything  else — at  least  while  the  Ted  paint  lasts.  That 
is  because  it  is  not  easy  to  accumulate  the  cash  to  replace 
one.  The  wagons  are  chiefly  useful  in  going  back  into 
the  hills  after  pine-nuts  and  acorns." 

The  Indians  bring  large  quantities  of  the  pine-nuts 
to  market,  and  the  nuts  are  eaten  around  nearly  every 
fireside  in  the  region  where  they  grow.  The  seeds  are 
about  a  half  inch  long  and  a  quarter  inch  in  diameter, 
and  the  shells  are  thin  so  that  they  can  easily  be  crushed 
in   the    fingers.      In   taste   the    kernels    are   sweet   and 


206     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

pleasing,  and  not  only  does  the  human  race  enjoy  them, 
but  they  are  devoured  by  dogs,  horses  and  birds.  The 
trees  are  the  most  important  food  trees  in  the  Sierras 
and  they  supply  the  ranches  with  much  of  their  fuel 
and  fence  posts.  They  seldom  grow  more  than  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  high,  and  they  have  no  inclination  to 
symmetry,  but  throw  out  crooked  and  divergent 
branches.  The  trunk  of  a  full-grown  tree  is  about  a 
foot  through.  They  occur  scatteringly  in  bushy  patches 
from  the  margin  of  the  sage  plains  to  an  elevation  of 
about  eight  thousand  feet.  No  slope  is  too  rough  and 
none  too  dry  for  the  nut  pine,  and  it  is  the  predominant 
tree  over  a  vast  territory.  Tens  of  thousands  of  acres 
are  found  in  continuous  belts.  Seen  from  a  distance  the 
trees  darken  the  land  where  they  grow,  yet  a  closer 
view  shows  that  they  never  form  crowded  groves,  cast 
little  shade,  and  their  forest  has  none  of  the  damp  leafy 
glens  and  hollows  so  characteristic  of  other  pine  woods. 
When  the  brown  nutritious  seeds  are  ripe  the  Indian 
women  who  have  been  out  at  service  among  the  settlers 
washing  and  drudging,  assemble  at  the  family  huts, 
and  so  do  the  men  who  have  been  working  on  the 
ranches.  Then  they  make  ready  the  long  beating  poles, 
and  such  bags  and  baskets  as  they  can  procure  and  all 
start  gleefully  for  the  nut  lands.  As  soon  as  they  get 
into  the  vicinity  of  the  trees  they  select  a  spot  where 
water  and  grass  are  found  and  camp.     That  done  the 


A  Nevada  Town  with  a  Past  207 

children  run  up  the  ridges  to  the  forest,  and  the  men 
laden  with  poles,  and  the  women  with  baskets,  follow. 
The  beating  begins  and  the  cones  fly  in  all  directions 
among  the  rocks  and  sagebrush.  Once  in  a  while  a 
man  will  climb  a  tree  and  cut  off  the  more  fruitful 
branches  with  a  hatchet.  The  squaws  gather  the  cones 
and  build  fires  by  which  they  roast  them  until  the  scales 
open  sufficiently  to  allow  the  seeds  to  be  shaken  out. 
The  nut  gatherers  get  much  bedraggled  with  the  soft 
resin  of  the  pines,  but  this  does  not  trouble  them  in  the 
least.  In  the  evening,  assembled  about  their  camp  fires, 
all  chattering  and  feasting  on  the  nuts,  they  are  espe- 
cially happy. 

Here  was  a  bit  of  life  truly  idyllic,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  nothing  in  the  feverish  delving  for  fortunes  in  the 
earth  was  half  so  charming. 

Note. — To  Eastern  eyes,  the  Nevada  country,  as  soon  as  you  get 
away  from  the  wooded  mountains,  is  desolate  in  the  extreme;  but  its 
very  desolation  is  one  of  the  things  that  makes  it  interesting  by  way 
of  contrast.  Virginia  City  and  Gold  Hill,  however,  have  a  magic 
past  that  makes  them  quite  fascinating  entirely  independent  of  their 
surroundings.  Then  there  is  Carson — which  is  a  real  curiosity,  it  is 
such  a  half-wild  and  tiny  hamlet  for  a  state  capital.  These  places  are 
not  far  aside  from  one  of  the  main  routes  across  the  continent  and 
well  repay  a  visit.  For  those  who  have  time  it  is  to  be  recommended 
that  they  keep  on  southerly  to  the  new  mining  regions  in  the  Goldfield 
and  Tonopah  country.     Here  is  life  in  the  rough  and  men  with  the 


208     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

bark  on,  and  much  is  to  be  seen  of  humanity  and  nature  in  this  district 
that  is  a  revelation  to  the  average  traveller. 

Easier  of  access,  and  with  another  sort  of  attraction  is  Lake  Tahoe 
on  the  dividing  line  between  Nevada  and  California.  It  is  only  a 
fifteen-mile  ride  on  a  narrow-gauge  road  from  Truckee  on  the  main 
line.  At  the  end  of  this  ride  you  find  the  best  of  hotel  accommoda- 
tions, and  a  wilderness  lake  some  twenty  miles  long  and  twelve 
broad  surrounded  by  forests  and  snow-capped  mountains.  The  lake 
is  more  than  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea  level,  and  is  marvel- 
ously  deep  and  crystal  clear.  _  There  are  many  lesser  lakes  in  the 
vicinity  and  foaming  cascades,  and  good  hunting  and  fishing.  The 
region  is  at  its  best  in  the  late  summer  and  autumn.  One  can  judge 
of  the  virtues  of  the  lake  from  the  fact  that  Mark  Twain,  who  spent 
some  time  on  its  shores,  says,  "Three  months  of  camp  life  on  Lake 
Tahoe  would  restore  an  Egyptian  mummy  to  his  pristine  vigor  and 
give  him  an  appetite  like  an  alligator." 


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X 

AMONG   THE    SHASTA    FOOTHILLS 

IT  WAS  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  and  I  had  just 
stopped  off  at  a  little  railway  station  in  Northern 
California.  The  station  was  not  lighted  and  when 
the  train  rumbled  away  I  was  left  blinking  in  the  un- 
certain darkness.  I  looked  this  way  and  that  for  some 
sign  of  habitation  and  saw  none.  Looming  against 
the  northern  sky  rose  a  grim  black  peak,  an 
almost  perfect  pyramid,  strangely  regular  and  vast  and 
near.  In  the  east  rose  another  pyramid  mountain 
mass,  ghostly  white  with  eternal  snows.  That  I  knew 
was  Shasta.  I  began  exploring  the  lonely  void  around 
and  presently  discovered  a  man  with  a  lantern  on  the 
other  side  of  the  station.  This  man  was  good  enough 
to  act  as  my  guide,  and  he  piloted  me  across  the  road  to 
a  story-and-a-half  hotel  hidden  among  some  trees. 
Then  he  went  his  way.  The  building  was  dark  and 
silent.  I  stepped  up  on  the  piazza  and  after  rapping 
again  and  again  without  avail  reinforced  my  blows 
with  shouts  of  "Hello!" 


209 


210     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

At  length  a  woman's  voice  responded,  and  presently 
the  lady  of  the  house  appeared  with  a  candle.  She 
said  she  had  no  accommodations  left  except  a  cot  bed; 
but  as  her  hotel  was  the  only  one  in  the  hamlet,  a  cot 
bed  seemed  to  me  a  very  satisfactory  solution  of  my 
difficulties.  She  gave  me  the  candle,  and  I  climbed  a 
narrow  stairway  into  a  garret — a  little,  rough-boarded 
apartment  with  a  closed  deal  door  at  either  end  and  a 
rude  railing  around  the  stairway-opening  in  the  middle. 
A  stand  and  a  chair  were  in  one  corner,  and  in  each  of 
the  other  corners  was  a  cot  bed.  Two  of  the  beds  were 
already  occupied.  The  other  was  mine.  There  were 
no  windows  and  no  provision  for  ventilation,  and  after 
I  blew  out  the  candle  the  room  was  as  dark  as  a  pocket. 
Downstairs  I  could  hear  a  clock  solemnly  ticking.  One 
of  my  fellow-roomers  was  snoring  uneasily,  and  the  other 
would  now  and  then  talk  in  his  sleep.  But  at  last  all 
this  faded  out  of  my  consciousness,  and  when  I  awoke 
there  were  glints  of  light  coming  in  at  sundry  cracks 
and  knot  holes  in  the  partitions  that  separated  the 
garret  I  was  in  from  the  apartments  adjoining  at  either 
end.  The  occupants  of  these  rooms  were  astir,  and  one 
at  a  time,  two  from  each  chamber,  they  entered  my 
room  and  passed  down  the  stairway. 

My  fellow-roomers  now  rose,  and  one  of  them,  as  he 
dressed,  lit  and  smoked  a  cigaret.  To  wash  we  were 
obliged  to  go  down  to  the  back  porch,  where  on  a  bench 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  21 1 

was  a  basin  with  a  pail  beside  it  from  which  to  dip  the 
necessary  water.  From  this  little  porch  we  had  the 
mighty  form  of  Shasta  in  full  view,  marvelous  in  the 
height  of  its  aspiring  pinnacles  and  in  the  unsullied 
whiteness  with  which  the  snows  clothed  its  wild  crags. 
The  woodland  darkened  its  base,  but  the  trees  gradually 
frayed  out  and  ceased  long  before  they  reached  the 
summit. 

We  could  also  look  forth  from  the  porch  on  that  near 
and  frowning  peak  of  gloom  I  had  seen  the  night 
before.  From  bottom  to  top  it  was  little  else  than 
barren  rock  and  loose  slides  of  stone.  "It's  called 
Black  Butte,"  said  the  hired  girl,  "and  I've  been  told 
it's  infested  with  rattlesnakes,  and  that  the  rocks  are 
all  wore  slick  with  the  snakes  comin'  and  goin'.  It's 
a  fine  place  for  'em  all  right,  and  people  say  if  you  go  to 
the  mountain  just  about  sun-up  you  can  see  the  rattle- 
snakes pokin'  up  their  heads  all  around." 

"Well,"  said  the  landlady,  "I  know  that  knoll  on 
the  east  side  of  Black  Butte  is  a  regular  rattlesnake 
den.  I  had  a  boarder  once  named  Chapman,  and 
he  had  a  perfect  mania  for  catchin'  rattlesnakes. 
He  was  really  luny  about  it,  and  he  went  after  'em  every 
Sunday.  I've  never  dumb  up  there,  but  I've  seen  the 
snakes'  tracks  crossin'  the  road  down  below.  He'd 
catch  'em  alive  and  ship  'em  off  and  sell  'em." 


212     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"  It's  said  that  if  you  get  a  good  fat  rattlesnake  and 
try  out  the  oil,  that  oil  is  a  wonderful  cure  for  rheuma- 
tism," remarked  one  of  the  lodgers.  "You  rub  it  on 
and  take  it  internally,  both." 

"I'm  not  scared  of  snakes,"  declared  the  hired  girl, 
gazing  meditatively  at  the  dark  stony  height.  "  I'd 
just  as  soon  tackle  'em  as  not;  but  I  don't  want  any- 
thing to  do  with  a  mouse.  Mice  are  creatures  I  can't 
stand.  I  can  dance  for  a  week  if  I  see  a  mouse  runnin' 
around  the  room.     Yes,  you  bet  I  can!" 

"I  ain't  stuck  on  seein'  mice  or  snakes  either,"  said 
the  landlady;  "but  I  think  the  varmints  back  on 
Shasta  are  worse  than  the  snakes." 

Then  she  told  how,  occasionally,  a  brown  bear  was 
captured  and  wildcats  shot,  and  how  right  there  at 
the  hotel  they  sometimes  would  hear  a  California  lion 
roar,  or  the  coyotes  yelping.  In  the  midst  of  her 
observations  she  came  to  a  sudden  stop  and  chased  out 
an  old  hen  that  had  walked  into  the  house  and  was 
looking  around.  "That  there  hen  has  got  to  change 
its  habits!"  she  announced.  "For  two  days  it  has  laid 
an  egg  on  my  bed,  and  I  won't  have  such  doin's." 

The  hens  were  laying  very  well,  at  present,  she  said, 
only  they  often  stole  nests  off  in  the  manzanita  shrubs 
and  thorny  "sticker-bushes"  where  she  could  not  find 
the  eggs. 


The  well  at  the  back  door 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  213 

The  place  where  I  was  stopping  was  a  woodland  mill 
village  clustering  about  some  big  red  box-factory 
buildings  with  their  piles  of  boards.  Some  of  the 
houses  were  substantial  cottages,  but  most  were  little 
shacks  of  unplaned  boards  that  in  themselves  and  in 
their  surroundings  were  extremely  unprepossessing. 
Their  occupants  were  mostly  "Eye-talians."  There 
were  no  gardens,  no  green  grass — only  ragged  forest  of 
brush  and  stumps  and  brown  gritty  earth.  All  the 
vicinity  had  been  cleared  of  its  good  timber. 

One  odd  feature  of  the  village  was  its  ovens.  Under 
a  shed  adjoining  nearly  every  house  was  a  plank  plat- 
form on  which  was  built  a  dome-like  cavern  of  stones 
and  cement.  In  this  a  fire  is  made,  and  when  it  has 
burned  down  to  embers  it  is  raked  out,  and  the  loaves 
of  bread  are  put  in  and  the  opening  closed.  The  heat 
the  oven  has  absorbed  from  the  fire  does  the  baking. 

In  my  walks  I  often  heard  the  weird  honking  of  wild 
geese,  and  when  I  turned  my  eyes  upward  I  would  see 
a  flock  of  the  great  birds  with  outstretched  necks 
winging  their  swift  way  northward.  Sometimes  there 
would  be  no  more  than  a  dozen,  and  again  there  would 
be  scores.  They  flew  in  a  more  or  less  V-shaped  forma- 
tion, and  it  was  an  inspiring  sight  to  see  them  ploughing 
along  the  blue  field  of  heaven.  Frequently  two  or 
three  flocks  were  in  sight  at  the  same  time. 


214     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

About  a  mile  down  the  valley,  not  far  from  the  road, 
was  a  pleasant  green  hollow  where  some  cows  were 
pastured,  and  through  the  glen  flowed  a  crystal-clear 
brook.  The  brook  burst  forth  full-fledged  from  a 
bountiful  spring,  and  in  the  pellucid  depths  of  the  pools 
near  this  spring,  one  could  get  glimpses  of  lurking 
trout.  Close  by  the  stream  was  a  cluster  of  pines,  and 
one  day  as  I  was  passing  I  noticed  among  the  trees  two 
men  who  had  a  little  fire.  I  went  into  the  grove  and 
joined  them.  They  spoke  of  themselves  as  "bums," 
or  "hoboes,"  but  affirmed  that  they  were  not  tramps. 
"A  tramp,"  they  explained,  "never  works,  but  a  hobo 
is  a  man  who  travels  on  the  road  and  does  work  when 
he  can  find  a  job." 

They  even  entered  on  a  learned  disquisition  as  to  the 
origin  of  the  word  hobo;  for  they  were  men  of  intelli- 
gence and  some  education.  They  had  "travelled  from 
A  to  Z"  in  every  state  of  the  Union,  and  one  of  them 
said,  "There's  very  few  has  more  knowledge  of  places 
and  routes  than  I  have.  I  could  pass  a  better  civil 
service  examination  than  any  mail  agent  on  this  rail- 
road that  goes  through  here." 

They  had  bunked  in  a  box  car  that  had  a  little  straw 
in  it  the  night  previous.  The  sun  had  warmed  the  car 
so  it  retained  its  heat  till  about  midnight,  but  after  that 
it  became  so  cold  the  hoboes  crawled  out  and  went 
down  the  railroad  and  built  a  fire.     "Yes,  there  are 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  215 

discomforts,"  they  said,  "and  yet  this  is  a  very  healthy 
life,  and  we  never  have  any  trouble  with  our  stomachs 
or  our  lungs.  A  sick  man  couldn't  do  better  than  to 
find  a  good  pard,  take  along  a  little  money  and  start 
out  on  the  road." 

The  men  seemed  very  leisurely.  In  fact,  "  a  tramp 
doesn't  care  whether  he  gets  to  town  this  week  or  next. 
He  knows  the  town  will  be  there  when  he  arrives." 

My  companions  spoke  of  the  grove  they  were  in  as 
the  "Hoboes'  Jungle,"  and  said  that  men  of  their  sort 
were  there  nearly  every  day.  They  had  several  paper 
bags  and  parcels  of  provisions  and  were  preparing 
dinner.  The  younger  man  acted  as  chef,  and  the  older 
said,  "I  never  was  much  of  a  jungle  cook,  but  I  can 
wash  the  dishes  and  get  the  firewood." 

Dishes  were  plenty,  such  as  they  were.  There  were 
tin  cans  and  pails  in  great  variety,  and  there  was  a 
stew-pan,  a  frying-pan  and  a  large  pot  and  a  number  of 
low,  panlike  dishes  the  hoboes  had  themselves  shaped 
out  of  pieces  of  tin.  The  frequenters  of  this  jungle 
never  washed  their  pots  and  pans  after  they  finished  a 
feast,  but  left  that  job  for  the  next  men.  The  older  of 
the  two  bums  took  the  pot,  and  with  a  rag  and  some 
sand  gave  the  inside  a  thorough  scouring.  Then  he 
washed  it  at  the  stream  side  and  plugged  up  a  hole  with 
a  bit  of  wood.  He  brought  it  full  of  water  to  his  comrade 
who  was  paring  potatoes.    Afterward  he  returned  to  the 


216     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

brook  with  several  other  cans  and  pails  which  he  also 
cleansed  and  put  in  order.  One  of  them  he  filled  from 
the  stream  and  set  on  the  fire  to  boil  for  the  coffee.  Last 
of  all  he  went  into  the  neighboring  woods  and  gathered 
an  armful  of  fallen  branches,  broke  them  up  and 
adjusted  the  pieces  on  a  rough  circle  of  stones  that 
served  for  a  fireplace. 

"Now,"  said  the  cook,  "we  want  some  ladles." 

"All  right,"  responded  the  other,  "I  never  seen  the 
time  when  I  couldn't  jump  into  the  bush  and  make  a 
set  of  kitchen  tools  in  about  fifteen  minutes,  if  I  was 
real  hungry." 

He  got  out  his  jackknife,  selected  some  pieces  of 
wood  that  suited  his  purpose,  and  soon  had  fashioned 
two  rough  paddles.  Besides  the  potatoes,  or  "spuds" 
as  they  called  them,  the  cook  prepared  two  large  onions 
and  fried  a  good-sized  piece  of  steak.  He  had  some 
little  packages  of  salt  and  pepper  which  he  drew  on  for 
flavoring.  The  work  was  done  with  a  good  deal  of 
deftness,  but  it  took  considerable  time.  However,  he 
said  that  preparing  the  food  was  not  nearly  so  much  of 
a  task  as  getting  it  in  the  first  place. 

"What'll  you  have  for  a  plate?"  asked  the  cook, 
turning  to  his  pard. 

"Here's  a  flat  tin  dish  that'll  do,"  replied  the  older 
man,  "only  I  must  burn  it  out  first." 


Hoboes  getting  dinner 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  217 

When  everything  was  ready  the  cook  put  half  the 
great  mess  of  potatoes  and  onions  into  the  burned-out 
dish,  together  with  half  the  steak,  while  he  reserved  his 
share  in  the  frying-pan.  Then  a  loaf  of  bread  was 
taken  out  of  a  parcel  and  the  two  sat  down  on  some 
oil-cans  turned  bottom  upward  and  ate  in  great  con- 
tentment. 

"This  is  a  pretty  spot,"  observed  the  older  man, 
"and  I  always  do  like  to  eat  where  I  can  hear  the  sound 
of  running  water." 

They  did  not  pause  till  the  last  morsel  was  gone,  and 
I  imagine  it  was  the  only  square  meal  they  had  that 
day.  After  it  was  done,  one  got  out  his  pipe  and  the 
other  his  chewing  tobacco.  They  had  some  thought  of 
applying  for  work  in  the  local  mills.  If  they  decided 
to  go  on  to  other  regions  they  would  travel  by  train. 
Often  they  were  permitted  to  ride  on  a  freight  train 
in  return  for  helping  the  train  crew  with  their  work.  If 
permission  was  refused  they  stowed  themselves  away 
somewhere,  in  or  about  the  cars.  Very  likely  they 
would  get  put  off.  Usually  this  was  done  at  some  stop 
the  train  made,  and  the  hobo  then  spoke  of  himself  as 
"being  ditched."  Occasionally  the  train  men  would 
push  a  hobo  off  while  the  train  was  going,  and  in  the 
hobo's  phraseology  he  then  "hit  the  grit."  At  times 
they  sneaked  a  ride  on  a  passenger  coach — perhaps  up 
on   top   or  on   the   platform   of  the   "blind    baggage" 


21 8      Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

coach  next  to  the  tender,  or  perhaps  rode  seated  on 
the  trucks  down  beneath  the  cars.  "It  ain't  a  bad 
place  under  there,"  declared  the  older  man,  "when  the 
dust  don't  fly  too  bad,  and  I've  seen  trains  carryin' 
more  passengers  on  the  trucks  than  was  in  the  coaches." 

"I  told  you  I'd  been  to  every  state  in  the  Union," 
said  the  younger  man.  "Besides  that  I've  been  to 
Honolulu  and  to  Mexico.  Mexico  is  called  the  land 
of  tomorrow.  It's  the  motto  of  that  country  never  to 
do  today  what  you  can  put  off  till  the  next  day,  and 
California  is  just  the  same.  That's  the  effect  of  the 
climate,  I  suppose,  and  I  won't  dispute  but  what  the 
climate  is  fine.  However,  if  you  want  a  hobo  tourist's 
idea  of  California,  I'd  say  that  this  state  is  nine-tenths 
climate  and  one-tenth  business.  The  hobo  that  wants 
to  come  to  a  starvation  country  had  better  come  here. 
Instead  of  eating  three  meals  a  day  he  gets  only  one 
meal  in  three  days.  They  call  this  God's  country,  but 
I  tell  you  the  devil  has  the  whole  thing  in  hand. 

"When  I  came  out  here  as  a  young  man  affairs  went 
well  with  me  for  a  time  and  I  got  to  own  two  good 
ranches.  Yes,  I  made  barrels  of  money.  Then  come 
a  dry  year  and  everything  run  behind.  My  stock  was 
starving  and  I  shot  forty  of  my  horses  to  put  'em  out 
of  misery.  Others  I  sold  to  a  rich  ranchman  at  a  dollar 
a  head.  The  best  of  'em  he  shipped  to  Nevada  to 
graze,  and  the  rest  he  killed  and  fed  to  his  hogs.     In 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  219 

addition  to  losing  by  the  drouth  I  speculated  in  mining 
stocks  and  kept  sending  good  money  after  bad  till  I 
lost  all  I  had. 

"This  state  is  overrated.  People  back  East  hear 
about  the  fruit  and  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers  the 
year  around,  and  the  railroads  advertise,  and  the  land 
sharks  tell  how  this  is  the  finest  spot  on  earth  to  really 
enjoy  livin',  and  that  when  a  person  dies  here  he  gets 
a  ticket  right  from  this  glorious  climate  straight  up  into 
heaven  with  no  change  of  cars.  Lots  of  Eastern  people 
believe  this  is  all  as  represented.  A  family  comes  early  in 
the  year  from  the  snows  and  frosts  of  their  home  winter. 
Here  things  are  green,  and  the  real  estate  agent  knows 
the  new-comers  are  green  too.  He  shows  'em  a  place, 
and  says,  'Now  this  is  a  nice  ranch,  and  you  can  raise 
anything  in  the  world  on  it.  The  price  is  so  and  so. 
We're  almost  giving  it  away,  as  it  were,  but  we  want 
intelligent  liberal  people  of  your  class  to  settle  here.' 

"The  man's  wife,  she  looks  around,  and  she  says, 
'Just  see  the  sunshine,  and  the  oranges,  and  all  those 
roses.     I  guess  we'd  better  have  it.' 

"So  the  man  buys.  But  in  a  year  or  two  there's  a 
change  in  his  sentiments,  and  the  wife  ain't  quite  satis- 
fied. She  gets  to  longin'  for  the  East,  and  she  speaks 
to  her  husband  and  tells  him  things  don't  seem  to  be 
just  as  they  was  represented.  That's  what  he  thinks, 
too,  and  he's  ready  to  do  whatever  he  can  to  please  her; 


220     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

so  he  goes  to  the  agent  he  bought  of  and  says  he  wants 
to  sell. 

"'Why,  it's  foolish  to  do  that,"  the  agent  says. 
"  Prices  have  dropped  and  at  present  you'd  lose.' 

"  But  the  man  wants  to  quit,  and  the  agent  makes 
him  an  offer.  'The  way  things  are  now,'  he  says, 
'that's  the  best  I  can  do.' 

"The  man  sells  and  goes  back  East  where  he  come 
from  a  few  thousand  dollars  poorer  than  when  he  left. 
The  neighbors  ask  how  it  happens  he  didn't  stay,  and 
he  tells  'em,  'They  don't  have  snow  out  there,  and  that's 
about  the  only  unpleasant  feature  they  lack.' 

"You  talk  up  California  to  any  people  in  the  East 
who  have  lived  out  here  and  they'll  run  you  off  the 
place.  Irrigation  is  the  only  salvation  for  this  West 
Coast  land;  and,  by  the  way,  did  you  ever  notice  how 
the  natives  spit  to  help  out  the  work  of  the  streams  ? 
I  chew  tobacco  myself,  but  I  ain't  a  savage.  The  tobacco 
users  in  this  country  act  as  if  they  owned  the  air,  and 
the  floors  of  public  buildings  and  railroad  cars,  not  to 
mention  the  earth.  They  are  irrigating  all  the  time 
wherever  they  are,  indoors  and  out,  till  a  decent  man 
is  disgusted. 

"They  say  it  is  dreadful  easy  to  make  a  livin'  in  the 
fruit  business,  but  I  tell  'em  I  ain't  seen  anyone  knockin' 
oranges  out  of  the  trees  with  a  gold  brick — no,  not  a 
single  instance  of  that  kind.     It's  claimed  that  the  San 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  221 

Joaquin  Valley  is  one  of  the  most  fertile  valleys  in  the 
world,  and  so  it  is  in  spots.  But  watch  out  for  the  hard- 
pan.  That  is  the  great  backfall  in  this  country.  Often 
the  soil  lies  so  thin  on  top  of  it  that  it's  just  about 
worthless.  Horned  toads  wouldn't  live  on  it.  But  the 
people  in  this  country  are  what  you  call  flimflammers, 
or,  in  other  words,  four-flushers.  They  lay  off  that 
hardpan  desert  into  fruit  ranches  and  induce  people  to 
leave  their  happy  homes  in  the  East  to  settle  on  it.  A 
Californian  expects  you  to  give  him  all  the  money 
you've  got  and  thank  him  for  taking  it.  He  sticks  you 
with  that  land,  and  you  build  a  shanty  on  it  and  put  up 
a  windmill  and  supply  the  wind  yourself.  Sheep  can 
barely  exist  on  the  soil,  and  it  won't  raise  white  beans. 
"Do  you  know  about  the  mosquitoes?  You  wTalk 
along  the  Sacramento  or  the  San  Joaquin  rivers,  and 
the  mosquitoes  rise  in  swarms  and  follow  you  in  droves; 
and  there's  terrible  malaria  in  those  valleys.  Lots  of 
ranchers  have  to  go  to  the  seashore  in  the  summer  to 
spend  a  couple  of  months,  and  you'd  be  surprised  to 
see  how  wrinkly  and  dark  and  sick  they  look.  Some 
owners,  just  in  self-defense,  lease  their  land  to  the 
Chinamen  and  live  in  the  city  themselves.  Chinamen 
don't  have  malaria.  They  are  very  careful.  They 
scrape  their  tongues  at  night  with  a  piece  of  wood. 
I've  watched  'em,  and  they  bathe  their  feet  before 
goin'  to  bed.    They  always  boil  their  drinkin'  water,  too, 


222     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

and  never  take  any  in  its  original  form,  but  add  a  little 
tea." 

"  I'll  tell  you  another  thing,"  said  the  older  hobo. 
"I'm  an  ex-pugilist,  but  the  fleas  down  there  in  South- 
ern California  have  knocked  me  down  and  jumped  on 
me.  Of  course  you  don't  get  'em  real  bad  till  summer, 
though  there's  some  all  the  year." 

"Any  hobo  who  wants  to  get  work  on  a  ranch  here 
has  got  to  carry  his  own  blankets,"  remarked  the 
younger  man.  "On  the  farms  back  East  the  hired 
man  has  a  room  in  the  house  and  he  sits  at  the  family 
table  to  eat.  Here  they  want  the  workingman  to 
knuckle  down  and  show  his  inferiority.  Unless  he's 
got  his  blankets  on  his  back  and  will  sleep  on  the  straw 
in  the  barn  it's  not  easy  to  find  a  job.  'Blanket  stiffs' 
is  what  we  call  fellers  who  go  about  with  their  bedding. 
A  stiff,  you  know,  is  a  man  who's  dead — that  is,  one 
who's  broke  so  often  he  don't  really  count  in  the 
world." 

"A  man  with  a  farm  here  don't  begin  to  get  the 
comfort  out  of  it  he  would  in  the  East,"  declared  the 
other  hobo.  "Fifty  acres  of  good  land  there  will 
support  him  handsomely,  and  he'll  raise  all  his  own 
vegetables,  meat  and  everything.  Out  here  he  may 
have  a  much  bigger  place,  but  he'll  raise  just  one  thing — 
fruit,  or  cattle,  or  whatever  he  chooses,  and  buy  the 
rest,  or  do  without.     There's   people  in  this  country 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  223 

with  thousands  of  cattle  who  don't  milk  a  single  cow 
and  they  use  condensed  milk." 

"One  reason  why  we  have  trouble  in  getting  work 
here,"  said  the  younger  man,  "is  because  employers 
all  give  preference  to  natives.  You  take  it  there  at 
San  Francisco,  if  you're  a  native  son,  they  extend  the 
glad  hand  and  either  give  you  a  job  or  find  one  for  you. 
There's  a  society  they  call  'Native  Sons  of  the  Golden 
West' — Gloomy  West,  it  ought  to  be;  and  it  would 
describe  the  members  more  accurately  if  they  called  them 
'Native  Drunks.'  They're  wine  and  steam-beer  fiends, 
especially  on  the  day  when  they  gather  by  thousands 
to  have  their  annual  powwow.  A  native  son  won't  do 
you  any  kind  of  a  favor  without  expecting  you  to  grease 
his  hand  a  little  on  the  side;  and  we  all  despise  a 
California  hobo.  If  there's  a  bunch  of  us  together, 
and  a  native  son  comes  along  we  won't  feed  him  or  let 
him  come  within  forty  rods  of  our  camp.  It's  easy  to 
get  the  best  of  'em.  They're  not  very  sharp.  You'd 
be  surprised  to  see  how  simple  some  of  these  native  sons 
are.  Why,  there  was  one  of  'em  who'd  always  lived  in 
the  hills,  and  he  concluded  he'd  travel  East.  He'd 
never  seen  a  railroad,  and  when  he'd  bought  his  ticket 
and  the  engine  came  snorting  along  the  track  he  was 
so  afraid  of  the  monster  he  wanted  to  run  away.  They 
could  only  get  him  on  the  train  by  blindfolding  him 
and  backing  him  up  on  from  a  cattle  shute." 


224     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"Well,  I've  got  even  with  a  few  of  'em  for  their 
meanness,"  said  the  older  hobo.  "I've  done  quite  a 
little  canvassing  out  here,  and  if  I'm  sober  I  have  a 
very  good  address  and  can  make  good  money.  One 
spell  I  put  in  selling  nice  gold  watches  for  twenty  dollars, 
or  perhaps  eighteen.  They  cost  me  three.  Another 
while  I  sold  harness-dressing  that  I  manufactured 
myself.  I'd  explain  how  it  would  make  the  leather 
soft  and  pliable  and  increase  the  durability,  and  I  did 
well.  Once  I  had  twenty-seven  hundred  dollars  ahead, 
but  it  seemed  to  get  away  from  me.  I  never  was  in- 
clined to  hoard  my  money,  and  I  could  never  save  what 
I  earned  for  more  than  a  short  time. 

"My  best  profit  came  from  a  home  dressmaking 
pattern.  It  was  a  kind  of  a  disk  made  to  look  like 
leather  and  there  were  holes  punched  in  it.  They  cost 
me  fifty  cents  and  was  marked  five  dollars,  but  I  told 
people  that  the  manufacturers  allowed  me  to  introduce 
'em  at  two-fifty.  They  sold  quick,  and  often  people 
who  didn't  buy  would  have  me  make  a  pattern  for 
which  they'd  pay  fifty  cents.  I  could  most  always  get 
feed  for  my  horse  and  lodging  for  myself  free  by  making 
a  few  patterns  at  the  ranches  where  I  stopped. 

"  But  it's  much  harder  to  sell  to  a  California  woman 
than  it  is  to  an  Eastern  woman.  The  climate  seems  to 
have  a  tendency  to  make  people  nervous  and  crazy. 
A  woman  here  is  always  in  a  fidget,  and  at  the  same 


Washing  day 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  225 

time  she  may  not  be  doing  anything;  and  there's  no 
use  whatever  tryin'  to  transact  business  with  'em  after 
noon.  You  couldn't  sell  a  California  woman  a  twenty 
dollar  gold  piece  for  a  nickel  then.  She  either  wants  to 
take  a  nap,  or  to  go  out  on  the  street  to  display  her 
finery." 

Two  other  hobo  couples  now  arrived  in  the  grove. 
They  had  parcels  of  food  under  their  arms,  and  began 
dinner  preparations.  Each  couple  had  their  own  fire, 
and  did  their  housekeeping  separately,  but  there  was  a 
friendly  interchange  of  certain  portions  of  the  bill  oi  fare. 
One  party  lacked  cofFee  and  bread.  These  things  were 
supplied  by  the  other,  which  in  return  received  some 
bacon  fat  to  fry  eggs  in,  and  several  other  small  items. 
One  of  my  earlier  acquaintances  got  out  a  piece  of  soap 
and  washed  his  hands  and  face  in  a  pail  of  warm  water. 
Then  he  went  to  the  stream  and  washed  an  extra  shirt 
he  carried,  and  hung  it  on  the  bushes.  Lastly,  he  shaved 
himself.  In  the  sheltered  glade  loitering  among  the 
shadows  of  the  grove  with  its  carpet  of  pine  needles, 
and  lulled  by  the  gentle  warmth  of  the  weather  and  by 
the  singing  stream  the  hobo  life  had  a  flavor  quite 
alluring.  Certainly  the  hoboes  themselves  seemed 
content  and  even  happy. 

The  next  morning  the  crown  of  the  mighty  Shasta 
was  hidden  by  mists,  and  my  landlady  said,  "It's  an 


226     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

old  Indian  sign  that  when  there's  a  cloud-cap  on 
Shasta,  'he  talkee  storm.'" 

Sure  enough,  the  weather  was  threatening  all  day, 
and  we  had  sprinkles  of  rain  and  could  see  the  snow- 
squalls  whirling  across  the  white  mountain  wastes. 
The  hired  girl  looked  from  the  back  door  up  at  the 
wild  clouds  hovering  about  the  giant  mountain,  and 
said,  "I  told  'em  yesterday  it  was  goin'  to  storm,  and 
I've  come  out  a  winner."  -^ 

Though  Shasta's  topmost  peak  is  14,400  feet  above 
the  sea-level  the  climb  to  it  is  not  especially  difficult  or 
dangerous,  and  many  persons  make  the  ascent  every 
year.  July  and  August  are  the  best  months  for  this, 
as  then  the  weather  is  sure  to  be  good  and  there  is 
comparatively  little  snow.  The  climbers  and  their 
guide  drive  up  to  the  timber  line  and  camp  for  the 
night.  At  three  the  next  morning  they  leave  their  horses 
and  go  the  rest  of  the  way  on  foot.  Five  hours  of 
ascent  takes  them  to  the  top,  and  they  have  ample  time 
to  look  ofF  on  the  world  below,  and  to  descend  by  night- 
fall to  the  village  whence  they  started.  The  entire  cost 
for  parties  of  ten  or  more  is  five  dollars  each.  For  a 
single  person  the  charge  is  twenty  dollars. 

The  mountain  with  its  hoary  peaks  and  its  shaggy 
base  is  always  impressive,  and  one  is  reminded  of  the 
Alps;  yet  it  lacks  something  of  their  charm,  for  there 
you  have  a  mystery  of  atmosphere  you  seldom  get  in 


Among  the  Shasta  Foothills  227 

our  land,  and  the  vales  about  are  pastoral  and  gentle. 
Then,  too,  there  are  rustic  homes  and  quaint  villages 
and  peasant  life  in  keeping,  or  in  interesting  contrast 
with  the  scene.  But  in  America  the  foreground  is  only 
wilderness  or  ruined  forest,  blasted  by  the  ravages  of 
the  lumbermen,  and  the  buildings  are  unsightly  saw- 
mills, and  temporary  shacks  for  the  help,  and  if  there 
is  a  village  it  is  altogether  crude  and  unromantic. 

Note. — The  Shasta  region  is  a  land  for  the  lover  of  the  beautiful 
with  the  pioneer  instinct.  There  is  fishing  and  hunting  and  mineral 
springs  and  the  most  impressive  of  scenery.  Many  resorts  have  come 
into  existence  in  the  neighborhood  where  one  can  stop  with  entire 
comfort,  such  as  Sisson,  Mott,  Shasta  Springs,  and  Crag  View.  The 
climb  to  the  summit  of  the  white  peak  affords  an  exhilarating  experi- 
ence, and  the  acquaintance  one  makes  with  the  wilderness  around  is 
certain  to  leave  many  pleasant  memories. 


XI 

OREGON    FARM    LIFE 


1WAS  at  a  scattered  village  in  a  wide  alluvial  valley 
that  was  bordered  by  irregular  wooded  hills. 
Spring  had  arrived  some  time  before,  and  the  new 
leafage  was  well  started,  the  grass  was  getting  ankle 
high,  dandelions,  violets  and  buttercups  were  in  bloom, 
and  the  garden  posies  were  opening  out  around  the 
homes.  Most  of  the  orchards  were  past  their  blossom 
season,  but  the  apple  trees  were  blushing  in  full  splendor. 
Men  were  ploughing  and  harrowing,  and  some  were 
planting  corn,  and  some  were  hoeing  their  garden 
patches,  where,  though  it  was  only  mid-April,  the  peas, 
lettuce,  cabbages  and  other  things  were  all  green  and 
thriving,  and  the  strawberries  were  beginning  to  shed 
their  first  petals. 

A  variety  of  produce  was  raised  in  the  region,  but  the 
great  prune  orchards  were  especially  noticeable.  About 
the  barns  were  numerous  hogs  and  calves,  and  in  the 
pastures  were  grazing  flocks  of  sheep  and  herds  of 
cattle.  There  were  large  fields  of  wheat,  and  of  oats 
and  vetch  sowed  together,  and  of  alfalfa.    In  the  depths 

228 


Oregon  Farm  Life  229 

of  the  valley  flowed  Cow  Creek,  an  innocent-looking 
stream  just  then,  but  showing  signs  in  the  gullies  neigh- 
boring that  it  was  a  wild  and  wide-reaching  torrent  in 
flood-time.  During  the  high  water  many  of  the  out- 
lying farmers  are  cut  off  entirely  from  the  village,  and 
others  can  get  to  it  only  by  keeping  to  the  high  ground 
and  crossing  fields  and  climbing  fences. 

The  prosperous  serenity  of  the  country  was  attractive, 
but  scarcely  stimulating,  and  when  somebody  chanced 
to  speak  of  a  place,  six  miles  back  in  the  hills,  named 
Canyonville,  I  was  eager  to  see  it  and  visions  of  wild 
and  picturesque  beauty  floated  through  my  mind.  I 
started  in  the  early  afternoon  and  tramped  the  dusty 
road  in  the  warm  sunshine  up  and  down  an  endless 
succession  of  little  hills.  Sometimes  I  was  amid  farm 
fields,  or  pastures,  sometimes  in  the  sober  fir  forest.  In 
the  more  open  pastures  grew  occasional  oak  trees, 
their  limbs  raggedly  fringed  with  moss.  Occasionally 
there  were  thickets  of  chaparral  frosted  thickly  over 
with  blossoms,  and  humming  full  of  bees.  The  little 
lizards  were  out  enjoying  the  sunshine,  but  at  my 
approach  would  scud  to  shelter  with  a  quick  rustle 
through  the  dry  leaves.  The  birds  sang,  and  tar  aloft 
in  the  sky  sailed  some  stately  buzzards. 

When  I  reached  Canyonville  the  day  was  drawing  to 
a  close,  and  the  cows  were  drifting  in  from  their  pas- 
turage.    The  place  was  a  small  trading  center.     It  did 


230     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

not  look  very  flourishing;  for  the  main  street  was 
grass-grown,  and  many  of  the  little  stores  on  either  side 
were  vacant  and  had  their  windows  boarded  up.  The 
most  conspicuous  of  the  village  buildings  were  two 
diminutive  churches,  perched  on  the  same  knoll, 
both  dilapidated,  and  one  never  had  been  painted. 
However,  the  hamlet,  taken  as  a  whole,  in  its  setting 
of  steep,  fir-clad  hills  was  quite  delightful. 

I  found  lodging  at  the  Overland  Hotel,  the  only 
hotel  in  the  place,  but  there  was  a  stumpy,  two-story 
building  down  the  street  that  was  formerly  a  rival. 
Latterly  it  had  been  used  as  a  dwelling,  though  its 
sign  was  still  up — "The  Grand  Central."  "More 
name  than  house,"  one  of  the  villagers  remarked,  and 
really,  one  would  hardly  expect  so  impressively  named 
a  hostelry  in  a  remote  country  village. 

Like  nearly  all  the  buildings  on  the  main  street, 
whether  shops  or  residences,  my  hotel  stood  snug  to 
the  board  walk  and  had  a  piazza  roof  reaching  out  along 
the  whole  width  of  the  front  over  the  walk  below. 
The  piazza  floor  served  as  a  sidewalk,  but  it  also  served 
the  inmates  of  the  hotel  as  a  support  for  their  chairs 
when  they  chose  to  sit  in  the  open  air.  There  I  estab- 
lished myself  soon  after  I  arrived  and  rested  and  looked 
about.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  a  group 
of  boys  squabbling  playfully.  They  would  snatch  oflP 
each   others'   hats   and   give   them   a   throw,   and   this 


^ 


Oregon  Farm  Life  231 

seemed  to  entertain  them  until  one  hat  was  tossed  up 
on  a  roof.  The  roof  was  low,  and  by  standing  on  a 
window  ledge  and  clinging  to  the  eaves  the  owner  of 
the  hat  with  the  aid  of  a  stick  poked  it  off.  Then  he 
jumped  down  to  the  ground.  A  comrade  laid  hold 
of  the  hat  again,  but  the  owner  became  savagely 
belligerent  and  exclaimed,  "You  let  loose  o'  there 
you  dirty  idiot,  or  I'll  hit  you  with  this  stick." 

That  put  a  damper  on  the  game  and  brought  it  to 
an  end.  The  stout,  elderly  landlady  of  the  hotel  had 
come  to  the  door.  She  called  one  of  the  boys  over  to 
her  and  said,  "Roy,  how's  the  folks  ?" 

"Oh,  they're  pretty  well,"  he  replied. 

"You  don't  look  like  you  been  workin'  none,"  she 
continued.  "I  wish  you'd  go  to  your  house  and  bring 
me  a  few  pounds  o'  butter." 

As  he  moved  off  she  said  to  me,  "  His  people  make 
good  butter,  though  it's  claimed  that  the  creamery  here 
makes  the  best.  The  old  fashioned  country  butter 
ain't  to  be  depended  on.  I've  got  three  cows  myself, 
but  I  use  all  the  milk  and  cream.  The  only  thing  I 
don't  like  about  the  cows  is  that  I  have  to  do  my  own 
milking.  Women  do  a  good  deal  of  the  milking  around 
here. 

"This  is  a  nice  place  to  live.  You  can't  get  rich; 
but  even  if  you  could,  I  don't  know  that  you  could 
take  any  more  with  you  when  you  died." 


232     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

After  supper,  when  the  cows  had  been  milked  and 
the  other  work  done,  the  hotel  family  both  transient 
and  permanent,  gathered  about  the  office  stove,  and  as 
it  was  now  dusky,  Ella,  the  hired  girl,  lit  the  lamp. 
The  evening  was  chilly,  and  one  of  the  men  spoke 
approvingly  of  the  warmth  that  came  with  genial  vigor 
from  the  little  stove. 

"Well,"  remarked  the  landlady,  "you  can  always 
depend  on  Ella  to  make  a  good  hot  fire,  because  the 
girl  who  does  that  is  sure  to  get  a  smart  husband." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  a  teamster  who  was  a 
local  lodger,  "I  heard  yesterday  that  Ed  Slosson 
had  married  the  Widow  Weaver." 

"What  in  the  world  is  he  thinkin'  of!"  cried  the 
landlady.  "She's  old  enough  to  be  his  mother.  He 
must  be  a-losin'  his  mind." 

"  I  guess  he  had  a  likin'  for  the  old  lady's  farm," 
responded  the  teamster.  "All  the  people  up  the  valley 
where  she  lives  have  got  fine  places.  Their  buildings 
are  good  and  their  land  is  all  fertile  and  easily  handled. 
Down  this  way  most  every  ranch  is  mortgaged,  but  up 
there  they  own  their  places  clear.  I'd  like  a  good  ranch 
myself;  and  yet  if  I  had  the  money  I  don't  suppose  I'd 
buy  one.  You  can't  get  a  really  first-class  ranch  for 
less  than  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  I  don't  know  of 
any  such  in  the  county  that  will  pay  four  per  cent,  on 
the  price  asked." 


Oregon  Farm  Life  233 

"I'd  hate  to  ranch  up  where  the  Weaver  place  is," 
said  another  of  the  party.  "It's  too  far  from  any 
village." 

"Most  every  place  has  its  faults,"  commented  the 
teamster.  "You  know  where  my  brother  lives.  That's 
nice  country,  but  I  wouldn't  live  there  on  account  of 
the  water,  though  they  say  those  that  get  used  to  it 
like  it  and  don't  want  any  other.  They  would  just 
naturally  starve  to  death  if  they  couldn't  get  some  of 
that  old  sour  mineral  water  to  drink.  It's  worse  even 
than  city  water.  I  tell  you,  in  summer,  city  water  is  as 
warm  as  dishwater  and  don't  quench  your  thirst  at  all. 
Hain't  that  so  ?" 

"Talkin'  about  mortgages,"  said  the  other  man,  "  I've 
imagined  when  I  was  drivin'  along  that  I  could  tell 
every  place  that  wasn't  paid  for  by  the  look  o'  the 
buildings.  Lots  o'  men  would  do  better  to  let  their 
land  go  to  the  holder  of  the  mortgage  and  pay  crop 
rent  instead  of  interest.  That's  what  I  been  tellin' 
Albert  Lannagan  he'd  better  do." 

"Albert  used  to  have  a  good  stake,"  observed  the 
teamster,  "but  he  don't  have  the  knack  o'  keepin' 
what  he  has  like  his  father  did." 

"That  was  once  a  great  ranch  for  apples,"  continued 
the  other  speaker;  "but  there  ain't  been  no  right  good 
apples  in  Oregon  for  twenty  years.  The  old  orchards 
have  all  failed  like  on  account  of  the  San  Jose  scale. 


234     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

However,  I  don't  believe  we  could  equal  the  Eastern 
apples  anyway.  Apples  are  a  cold  climate  fruit.  Last 
year  our  crop  was  ruined  by  that  hot  day  we  had.  The 
thermometer  went  up  to  108,  and,  in  addition,  the  wind 
blew  hard,  and  every  apple  was  scalded  on  the  wind- 
ward side.  There's  one  thing  about  it — we  don't  have 
to  hurry  pickin'  'em  for  fear  of  frost.  I've  seen  apples 
hangin'  on  the  trees  perfectly  good  at  Christmas." 

"I  was  readin'  in  the  paper  that  Oregon  apples  beat 
the  world,"  remarked  a  man  who  had  not  spoken  before. 

"Oh,  that  ain't  so  at  all,"  affirmed  the  teamster. 
"They  don't  compare  with  those  back  in  Michigan 
where  I  come  from." 

"I  don't  believe  you're  a  good  judge,"  the  other 
retorted.  "When  a  feller  is  young  he  has  an  appetite 
for  fruit,  and  it  never  tastes  the  same  afterward." 

"That  ain't  the  case  with  me,"  responded  the  team- 
ster. "I  enjoy  fruit  as  well  as  ever  I  did.  When  it 
comes  to  apples  I'm  like  the  boy  that  set  out  to  eat 
a  barrel  of  sugar.     He  e't  all  he  could  and  quit." 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  the  other,  "it  used  to  be  a 
great  thing  to  go  off  in  the  woods  and  have  a  chicken 
roast.  Some  of  the  boys  would  steal  the  chickens.  If  I'd 
done  that  and  my  father  had  found  it  out  there  wouldn't 
have  been  enough  left  of  me  to  tell  the  story.  We  used 
to  take  our  own  chickens.  But  I  remember  soon  after 
I  and  my  wife  was  married,  two  young  brothers  of  hers 


The  milkmaids 


Oregon  Farm  Life  235 

come  in  one  evening  with  some  chickens  they'd  stolen 
and  wanted  'em  cooked  for  them  to  have  a  picnic. 
'Boys,'  said  I,  'I'll  tell  you  right  now  you  won't  get 
them  chickens  cooked  in  this  house.  You've  stole  'em 
and  they  may  make  you  trouble.  Best  thing  you  c'n 
do  is  to  say  nothing  to  nobody  and  throw  'em  out  over 
the  back  fence.' 

"  So  that  was  what  they  did.  Then  they  went  home, 
and  pretty  soon  I  stepped  out  and  picked  up  the  chickens. 
They  were  dead,  and  there  was  no  use  o'  wastin'  'em, 
and  my  wife  cooked  'em.  The  boys  ate  some  o'  those 
same  chickens;  but  they  never  did  know  that  the 
chickens  wa'n't  ours.  I'd  learned  'em  a  lesson.  If  I 
had  let  'em  go  on  as  they'd  started  there's  no  knowin' 
what  they  would  have  done  later." 

"I  wish  business  would  pick  up  here,"  said  the  land- 
lady. "There's  nothing  a-doing  much  in  the  woods 
since  the  timber  cruisers  got  into  trouble.  They  have 
been  havin'  this  racket  over  them  a  good  while  now. 
The  government  ain't  a-goin'  to  allow  them  to  be 
smugglin'  the  forest  any  more,  and  that's  kind  o' 
stopped  business  a  little  bit.  It  wa'n't  many  years  ago 
this  place  supported  six  or  seven  saloons.  Now  it's 
prohibition.     Oh,  it  used  to  be  a  good  deal  more  lively." 

"  I  can  mention  one  thing  we  ain't  gone  back  much  on," 
said  the  landlady's  grandson  who  was  sitting  on  an  old 
sofa  at  the  back  of  the  room,  "and  that's  lodges.    We've 


236     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

got  the  Masons,  and  the  Odd  Fellows,  and  Rebeccas, 
and  Eastern  Star,  and  Degree  of  Honor  and  Knights  of 
Pythias,  and  Woodmen  of  the  World,  and  two  or  three 
others.  The  people  are  kind  o'  lodge  crazy,  and  some 
belong  to  all  the  different  lodges.  We  did  have  a  grange, 
but  the  granges  around  here  have  all  busted  up." 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  the  various  members 
of  the  hotel  gathering  each  took  a  candle  and  made 
their  way  upstairs  to  bed. 

Out  at  the  rear  of  the  hotel  a  bell  was  suspended  on 
a  pole,  and  I  was  awakened  by  its  rude  jangling  the 
next  morning  at  a  quarter  to  six.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  it  again  rang  to  make  certain  that  everyone  in 
the  hotel  and  in  the  village  should  know  that  breakfast 
was  ready.  When  I  went  downstairs  I  met  the  land- 
lady coming  from  the  barn  where  she  had  just  finished 
milking.  The  village  was  astir,  and  the  smoke  was 
rising  lazily  from  home  chimneys,  and  there  were 
occasional  passers  clumping  along  on  the  board  walks. 
The  cows  and  horses  were  being  turned  loose  to  graze 
on  the  village  streets  and  out  into  the  surrounding 
forest. 

By  eight  o'clock  the  schoolboys  began  to  gather  at 
the  battered  two-story  schoolhouse,  which  was  on  the 
borders  of  the  central  village  cluster.  Apparently  they 
wanted  plenty  of  time  to  play  baseball;  for  after  a  little 
loitering  about  the  front  steps,  they  resorted  to  a  near 


Oregon  Farm  Life  237 

common  and  a  game  was  started.  It  was  a  large  school, 
and  rustic  youths  were  plentiful,  and  the  game  was 
quite  spirited.  Nearly  every  boy  wore  overalls,  and 
some  came  from  home  without  their  coats,  and  some 
were  barefoot.  I  judged  that  as  the  season  advanced 
they  gradually  shed  their  garments  until  they  only 
retained  the  overalls  and  a  shirt.  A  number  of  youths 
were  reduced  to  those  necessaries  already.  The  ortho- 
dox head-covering  was  a  straw  hat  with  a  broad  brim 
that  was  rakishly  turned  up  behind  and  down  in  front. 
When  school-time  approached,  girls  became  as 
abundant  as  the  boys,  but  their  attire  was  neat  and 
pretty  and  was  not  at  all  suggestive  of  the  barn  and  the 
fields  as  was  that  of  the  boys.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see 
a  village  so  teeming  with  children,  and  all  of  them  so 
hardy  and  genuinely  rural. 

In  the  hamlet  itself  the  men  folks  were  now  resorting 
to  the  post-office,  and  presently  the  stage  came  in. 
Then  they  got  their  mail  and  after  more  or  less  visiting 
dispersed,  and  the  village  settled  down  to  its  usual 
sleepy  quiet.  I  went  back  into  the  country  to  have  a 
look  at  the  happy  valley  where  all  the  land  was  superla- 
tively fertile  and  all  the  buildings  substantial  and  all 
the  farmers  rich.  It  was  an  attractive  region,  but  after 
having  heard  it  described  so  enthusiastically  it  hardly 
came  up  to  my  expectations. 


238     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

What  interested  me  most  in  my  ramble  was  a  man  I 
encountered  by  the  roadside  splitting  out  "shakes."  The 
material  he  used  consisted  of  sections  of  straight- 
grained  fir  about  thirty  inches  long.  These  had  been 
roughly  split  out  of  a  large  tree  into  squarish  blocks 
six  or  seven  inches  through.  He  would  set  one  up  on 
end  and  with  his  frow  and  maul  ream  out  the  thin  boards 
quite  deftly  and  rapidly.  These  home-made  shakes 
were  a  very  common  roofing  on  the  farm  buildings, 
especially  the  barns  and  sheds.  Pine  was  the  most 
desirable  material,  but  not  a  great  deal  grew  here,  and 
the  man  had  resorted  to  fir.  The  chief  trouble  with  the 
latter  was  that  in  nailing  it  to  the  roof  it  had  a  tendency 
to  check,  and  a  good  many  pieces  had  to  be  thrown 
away  on  this  account. 

The  man  was  elderly,  and  he  had  come  to  the  region 
when  it  was  new,  over  half  a  century  ago.  We  got  to 
talking,  and  pretty  soon  I  sat  down  on  his  pile  of  shakes- 
Then  he  took  out  his  pipe  and  after  filling  and  lighting 
it  seated  himself  on  a  log.  "It  was  in  1853,"  said  he, 
"that  I  first  saw  this  country.  We'd  come  out  here 
hunting  for  Oregon — that  is,  hunting  for  Oregon  farm- 
lands that  were  as  good  as  we'd  heard  tell  of.  We  were 
six  months  getting  to  the  coast  region  from  our  old 
home.  Now,  you  can  step  on  a  railway  train  and  get 
here  in  less  than  six  days.  Look  at  the  progress  of  the 
world,   will   you?      I   gosh!   if  a    man   had    advocated 


S  •    ■ilboys 


Oregon  Farm  Life  239 

building  a  railroad  across  them  plains  in  those  days 
they'd  'a'  hung  him.  They  wouldn't  'a'  believed  it 
could  be  did. 

"We  had  flint-lock  guns.  Then  the  cap-lock  was 
invented,  and  the  bfich-loader;  and  it  wa'n't  long  before 
a  man  wouldn't  pick  up  a  muzzle-loader  if  he  saw  one 
lying  in  the  road.  Muzzle-loaders  shot  good,  but  they 
were  too  slow.  One  man  with  a  brich-loader  was  equal 
to  twenty-five  with  the  old-fashioned  sorts. 

"This  country  was  all  wilderness  and  Indians.  The 
mountains  was  wooded,  but  the  valleys  was  prairie. 
There  was  some  large  timber  in  the  valleys,  but  no 
underbrush,  and  the  land  was  covered  with  bunch 
grass  that  growed  thick  and  tall  and  was  the  finest  feed 
possible.  You  could  turn  out  your  horses  in  the  fall 
and  they'd  find  plenty  to  eat  and  would  keep  fat  as  hogs 
all  winter.  Oh,  Lord,  yes!  But  as  time  went  on  this 
country  got  to  be  heavily  sheeped,  and  the  sheep  e't  off 
and  tramped  down  the  bunch  grass  till  it  was  run  out. 
The  grass  that's  took  its  place  is  pretty  poor.  In  the 
summer,  which  is  when  we  have  our  rainless  season, 
things  dry  up  and  you  got  to  feed  your  cattle  and  keep 
on  feedin'  'em  straight  through  the  fall  and  winter. 
If  we  have  right  early  rains  in  the  fall  the  grass  may 
turn  green  a  little,  but  it  don't  make  growth  to  amount 
to  anything. 


240     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"You  see  lots  o'  young  trees  growin'  everywhere  the 
plough  ain't  gone,  and  what  I  said  about  there  bein'  so 
much  prairie  land  don't  seem  likely,  does  it  ?  Well, 
I'll  tell  yer — it's  a  thing  I  kind  o'  hate  to  mention 
because  I'm  afraid  people'll  think  I'm  a  liar — the 
reason  of  there  bein'  grass  instead  of  underbrush  and 
thick  forest  was  that  the  Indians  set  fires  to  keep  the 
land  clear  and  make  good  range  for  their  ponies,  and 
easy  hunting. 

"We  took  up  a  donation  claim.  All  we  had  to  do 
was  to  settle  on  the  land,  and  it  was  ours.  In  a  few 
years  that  was  done  away  with  and  they  substituted  the 
homestead  claim,  and  you  had  to  pay  something  for 
your  ranch.  We  put  up  a  log  house  with  a  stick  and 
clay  chimney  at  one  end.  The  boards  for  the  floor  we 
reamed  out  of  four-foot  cedar,  and  after  bein'  laid  we 
levelled  them  with  an  adz  and  plane.  The  doors  had 
wooden  hinges  and  latches  that  we  made  ourselves. 
Iron  was  expensive.  Nails  was  two  bits  or  more  a 
pound,  and  we  mostly  got  along  without  'em.  For  the 
roof,  to  save  usin'  nails,  we  put  on  a  pole  over  each 
course  of  shakes  to  fasten  'em  in  place. 

"Oh,  the  early  settlers  had  it  pretty  tough.  We 
talked  a  jargon  that  was  got  up  for  the  Indians;  and  that 
was  taught  in  the  schools.  I  used  to  could  speak 
that  jargon  better  than  I  could  English  and  we  had  an 
:-dea  that  was  goin'  to  be  the  standard  language  here 


Oregon  Farm  Life  241 

in  Oregon.  Grazing  was  the  principal  business.  The 
man  with  ten  acres  fenced  had  a  big  place.  There  was 
plenty  of  wildcats  and  panthers,  and  black  and  brown 
bears,  and  you  can  find  a  good  many  still  back  in  the 
mountains.  Coyotes  are  about  the  worst  pest  now, 
though  I  can't  say  they're  so  awful  bad.  They  kill 
sheep  and  ketch  turkeys  and  chickens  and  anything 
like  that. 

"We  used  to  raise  better  wheat  then  than  we  can  at 
present;  but  we  didn't  have  any  of  our  modern  machin- 
ery for  handling  it.  We  tramped  the  grain  out  with 
horses  or  cattle.  We'd  clear  up  a  circle  on  the  ground 
about  thirty  feet  across,  and  some  people  would  build 
a  platform.  Then  around  the  outer  part  we'd  lay  a 
ring  of  sheaves  with  the  butts  inward.  There  were 
several  ways  to  do  the  thrashing.  Perhaps  the  common- 
est was  for  a  feller  to  get  on  a  saddle  horse  and  lead 
another  and  go  round  and  round  over  the  grain.  I've 
rode  a  horse  like  that  a  many  a  day  thrashing.  Some- 
times a  yoke  of  cattle  would  be  driven  around  instead 
of  horses.  Often  a  post  was  set  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
circle  with  a  long  arm  to  it,  and  the  horses  hitched  to 
the  end  of  that  and  set  to  goin.'  From  time  to  time 
we'd  stop  to  turn  the  sheaves  or  to  throw  out  the  straw, 
rake  the  grain  into  a  heap  in  the  center  of  the  circle 
and  put  down  more  sheaves  to  tramp. 


242     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"Now  I've  got  to  git  to  work,  and  I  want  twenty 
dollars  from  you.  The  information  I've  given  is  worth 
that,  ain't  it  ?" 

Note. — To  see  the  Oregon  farm  country,  probably  one  could  not 
do  better  than  to  explore  the  Willamette  Valley  south  of  Portland. 
From  the  agricultural  point  of  view  this  is  a  very  attractive  region 
and  you  will  find  much  to  please  you  in  soil,  crops,  climate  and  people. 


XII 


ALONG    THE    COLUMBIA 


THE  Columbia  is  one  of  the  biggest  of  American 
rivers,  and  in  time  of  flood  it  has  a  flow  greater 
than  is  ever  attained  by  either  the  St.  Lawrence 
or  the  Mississippi.  Its  lower  course,  especially,  is 
broad  and  impressive,  and  a  great  highway  for  com- 
merce and  travel.  At  the  mouth,  the  river  is  two  miles 
across.  Here,  a  short  distance  back  from  the  sea,  John 
Jacob  Astor  in  1811  established  a  trading  post.  He 
selected  a  spot  where  the  south  shore  dipped  inward  a 
little  and  a  cove  gave  slight  shelter.  This  did  very 
well  as  a  site  for  a  village  cluster,  but  for  a  large  town 
like  the  present  Astoria  it  has  disadvantages.  The 
shores  nearly  everywhere  rise  from  the  water's  edge  in 
a  steep  hillside,  and  the  place  clings  along  this  declivity 
for  several  miles.  It  is  very  odd — the  way  the  buildings 
lift  one  above  the  other,  and  you  are  surprised  by  the 
sharp  rise  of  the  streets  and  by  the  numerous  stairways 
that  give  approach  to  the  upper  tiers  of  homes.  The 
climbing  is  evidently  not  relished,  for  the  buildings  are 
snugged  in  a   very  close  but  attenuated   mass  on  the 

2+3 


244     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

lower  verge  of  the  slope  while  the  upper  portion  is  a 
background  of  ragged  forest.  Probably  more  than  half 
the  town  is  not  on  the  land  at  all  but  is  on  the  wharves 
or  stilted  up  at  the  waterside  with  the  waves  lapping 
about  underneath  at  high  tide.  The  principal  business 
thoroughfare  is  a  wharf  street.  This  is  largely  a  result 
of  the  fact  that  the  ships  formerly  furnished  nearly  all 
the  custom,  and  the  trader  who  was  right  on  the 
wharves  had  the  most  advantageous  position.  The 
whole  water  front  is  a  curious  labyrinth  of  these  wharves, 
and  they  jut  far  out  into  the  water,  with  a  zig- 
zagging of  streets  and  numerous  footways,  and  the 
railroad  cutting  across  them  all.  Here  are  enormous 
sawmills  with  their  great  piles  of  lumber,  the  ware- 
houses of  the  river  steamers  and  of  the  ocean-going 
ships,  and  the  wide-spreading  fish  canneries. 

Here  too  were  the  fish  wharves  with  hundreds  of 
the  staunch  rowboats  alongside  used  in  the  salmon 
fishing,  and  as  the  boats  rocked  on  the  waves  the  pulleys 
that  were  a  part  of  the  tackle  by  which  they  were 
hitched  kept  up  a  weird  and  incessant  creaking.  Some 
of  the  boats  had  gasoline  power,  but  in  most  I  saw  a 
mast  lying  along  the  gunwale,  and  as  soon  as  the  craft 
started  for  work  and  got  into  open  water  the  mast  was 
set  in  place  and  the  sail  spread  to  the  breeze.  Now 
and  then  a  boat  would  begin  to  drop  the  net  over 
the  stern  within  a  few  hundred  feet  of  the  wharves. 


Mend  trip  u  Stilmon  net 


Along  the  Columbia  245 

Others  went  out  to  the  middle  of  the  river  or  to  the 
opposite  shore,  or  down  where  the  stream  meets  the 
ocean.  Each  boat  carries  two  men — a  "captain"  and 
an  "oar-puller."  They  let  the  net  drift  with  the  tide. 
When  they  at  length  take  it  into  the  boat  they  may 
have  only  one  or  two  fish,  or  they  may  have  dozens. 
In  a  catch  of  twenty-five  fish  there  will  be  those  that 
weigh  anywhere  from  fifteen  to  sixty  pounds,  and  there 
is  a  possibility  of  getting  a  giant  of  the  race  that  will 
run  up  to  over  eighty  pounds. 

Boats  are  coming  and  going  all  the  time,  but  most 
of  them  start  out  at  low  tide,  toward  evening,  and  do 
not  return  till  morning.  In  the  quiet  weather  of  summer 
they  often  delay  the  start  for  home  until  the  land  breeze 
springs  up,  and  then  come  flitting  in,  half  a  thousand 
or  more,  all  together.  After  a  boat  has  delivered  its 
fish  to  the  cannery  or  cold  storage  it  returns  to  its 
hitching-place  by  the  wharf,  and  the  wet  net  piled  at 
the  stern  is  pulled  out  and  hung  on  rails  that  are  set 
on  the  wharf  for  this  purpose.  Later  the  net  is  carefully 
looked  over  and  the  breaks  repaired.  Sometimes  it 
has  caught  on  a  snag  and  been  torn  so  badly  that  it  is 
a  several  days'  task  to  put  it  in  shape.  The  nets  are 
both  wide  and  long,  and  cost  three  or  tour  hundred 
dollars.  A  boat  costs  about  half  as  much  more.  Profits 
are  divided,  two  thirds  going  to  the  captain  and  one 
third    to    the    oar-puller.      A   captain    who    uses    good 


246     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

judgment  and  works  hard  may  be  fortunate  enough  to 
clear  during  the  season  close  to  two  thousand  dollars. 
But  the  average  is  much  less,  and  some  poor  stupid 
fellows  barely  pay  expenses. 

The  open  season  is  from  April  fifteenth  to  August 
fifteenth.  There  is  no  forecasting  when  the  fish  will 
run  in  multitudes.  One  man  may  come  home  and  go 
to  bed  having  caught  nothing.  Another  may  come  in 
an  hour  later  who  has  drawn  up  his  net  so  full  that  he 
cannot  get  all  the  fish  into  his  boat  and  has  to  throw 
many  away.  Often,  the  bulk  of  the  catch  is  made 
within  a  fortnight,  but  again  the  haul  of  fish  may  be 
distributed  somewhat  unevenly  through  the  entire  four 
months.  A  man  is  supposed  to  make  all  he  needs  in 
the  season  to  carry  him  through  the  year,  and  some 
are  content  to  loaf  and  do  odd  jobs  during  the  time 
that  intervenes  between  seasons.  Others  find  steady 
work.  There  was  a  time  when  the  fishermen  were 
largely  Americans  and  English,  but  now  they  are  nearly 
all  Finns  or  natives  of  Eastern  and  Southern  Europe, 
who  speak  our  language  brokenly  or  not  at  all. 

Get  away  from  the  town  inland  and  you  find  almost 
unbroken  forest.  In  a  few  favored  spots  a  little  farm- 
land has  been  cleared.  A  considerable  quantity  of 
potatoes  is  raised,  and  the  Chinese  have  plots  where 
they  grow  most  of  what  the  town  needs  in  the  way  of 
green    vegetables.      You    see    these    slant-eyed    gentry 


Along  the  Columbia  247 

peddling  their  products  through  the  streets,  carrying 
their  wares  in  two  plethoric  baskets  suspended  from 
the  ends  of  a  bamboo  pole  which  is  balanced  on  the 
shoulder. 

In  the  woods  are  to  be  found  raspberries,  black- 
berries and  huckleberries  in  abundance,  while  straw- 
berries flourish  in  the  open  country.  But  for  the  most 
part  these  small  wild-fruits  go  unpicked,  though  in 
quality  they  are  far  finer  than  those  grown  in  the  tepid 
climate  of  California.  The  people  continue  to  depend 
on  the  south  for  fruits  because  nobody  cares  to  be 
troubled  with  anything  that  brings  such  small  returns 
as  berry-picking.  There  is  practically  no  poverty,  and 
therefore  no  spur  to  make  small  savings.  If  any  families 
are  poor  it  is  because  of  drink.  Astoria's  main  street 
had  fourteen  saloons  in  a  third  of  a  mile,  and  all  the 
towns  and  villages  in  the  valley  seemed  to  be  over- 
supplied  with  drinking-places  in  a  somewhat  similar 
manner.  Apparently,  everyone  resorted  to  them — fish- 
ermen and  lumbermen,  merchants  and  farmers,  and 
while  I  did  not  often  see  men  wholly  incapacitated 
because  of  their  potations,  there  were  plenty  who  got  to 
the  border  line.  Nor  did  this  seem  to  be  counted  a 
serious  failing,  but,  rather,  the  natural  thing  for  any 
man  to  occasionally  drink  to  excess.  As  a  visitor  from 
Iowa  expressed  himself  to  me  on  the  subject,  "My 
sakes!  it's  awful,  ain't  it!" 


248     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

In  Astoria  the  streets  were  mostly  planked.  It  was 
the  same  in  other  places,  and  from  some  of  the  river 
villages  the  plank  roads  ran  far  out  into  the  forest. 
When  in  good  repair  they  made  a  fairly  smooth  road, 
but  where  they  were  broken  or  teetering  one  got  well 
jolted  in  riding  over  them.  I  sometimes  saw  split 
sections  of  trees  substituted  for  the  plank  back  in  the 
woodland,  and  then  the  surface  was  much  like  corduroy. 

Habitations  all  along  the  river  stuck  pretty  close  to 
the  waterside,  and  the  stream  and  the  railway  skirting 
it  furnished  nearly  the  entire  means  of  transportation. 
Here  and  there  were  trails  through  the  woods,  but  no 
roads  worthy  the  name  when  you  got  away  from  the 
villages.  The  country  is  still  very  rich  in  natural 
resources  and  has  only  been  scratched  yet.  Get  away 
from  the  river  a  short  distance  almost  anywhere  and 
you  are  in  heavy  woodland  so  thick  and  luxuriant  that 
you  push  along  in  a  twilight  gloom.  The  shores  of  the 
stream  abound  in  booms  and  logs,  and  you  see  frequent 
stern-wheel  steamers  ploughing  their  way  up  stream 
with  a  long  raft  trailing  behind.  At  the  mouth  of  every 
creek  there  seemed  to  be  a  sawmill,  and  the  creek  was 
perhaps  a  waterway  for  floating  down  the  logs,  or  it 
may  be  it  only  served  to  make  an  opening  back  into 
the  hills  for  a  narrow-gauge  logging  railway. 

Such  trees  as  the  mills  were  working  up  we  see  no 
more  in  the  East — so  straight  and  large  and  free  from 


Along  the  Columbia  249 

blemish.  What  to  do  with  the  slabs  and  refuse  is  a 
problem.  The  mill  men  would  gladly  dump  them  into 
the  river,  but  there  is  a  law  to  protect  the  fishing  which 
forbids  the  water  being  thus  contaminated.  A  good 
deal  they  burn.  Some  make  great  piles  of  the  waste 
material  round  about  the  mill  at  the  edge  of  the  water, 
and  when  the  floods  come  it  is  a  relief  if  the  accumula- 
tions go  adrift.  Perhaps  the  mill  owners  had  exactly 
that  in  mind  when  the  piles  were  made.  Laws  are  all 
very  well  for  others,  but  when  they  interfere  with  one's 
personal  convenience  or  profit  men  are  prone  to  attempt 
dodging.  So  the  shores  of  the  great  river  are  every- 
where thick-strewn  with  sawed  fragments  and  sawdust 
and  there  are  likewise  numberless  stumps  and  logs  of  all 
sizes.  Some  of  these  stray  logs  were  thicker  than  I  am 
tall.  Often,  they  were  perfectly  sound,  yet  they  either 
get  imbedded  in  the  mud  and  stay  to  rot,  or  find  their 
way  to  the  ocean.  For  many  families  it  is  more  con- 
venient to  get  firewood  from  the  shore  than  from  the 
forest.  If  so,  the  supply  is  inexhaustible.  Then,  too, 
when  a  man  wants  to  build  a  fence  or  a  shed  he  can  by 
a  little  picking  get  plenty  of  really  good  timber  and 
boards  from  the  drift  to  meet  all  his  needs. 

The  sawmill  people  are  reckless  regarding  the  fishing, 
and  so  are  the  fishermen  themselves.  The  finest  salmon 
are  the  Royal  Chinooks,  and  the  law  only  allows  them 
to  be  taken  for  four  months;    but  in  the  smaller  places 


250     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

the  fishing  is  almost  continuous.  The  fishermen  are 
supposed  to  set  free  any  Chinook  that  gets  into  their 
nets  out  of  season,  but  I  am  afraid  they  seldom  do. 
They  dispose  of  such  fish  less  openly,  but  rarely  are 
willing  to  sacrifice  the  immediate  personal  gain  to  the 
future  common  good.  If  left  entirely  to  their  own 
devices  the  fishermen  would  in  a  few  seasons  extermi- 
nate the  salmon  and  put  an  end  to  the  very  industry 
by  which  they  make  their  living.  A  few  years  ago  it 
seemed  likely  this  would  happen,  but  of  late  the  propa- 
gation of  the  fish  has  received  attention,  and  many 
millions  of  spawn  have  been  put  in  the  waters.  As  a 
result  the  number  of  fish  has  apparently  been  largely 
increased.  How  much  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  for  the 
people  interested  in  the  industry  prefer  there  should  be 
an  impression  of  a  short  catch  in  order  to  bolster  prices, 
and  the  real  quantity  in  pounds  secured  is  very  likely 
a  fourth  greater  than  the  published  figures. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit  the  river  water  was  brown 
with  mud.  This  just  suited  the  fishermen,  for  the  fish 
are  then  less  able  to  see  and  avoid  the  nets.  Later  in 
the  season  a  good  deal  of  fishing  would  be  done  with 
long  seines  fastened  at  one  end  to  the  shore  on  a  gently 
shelving  beach.  The  other  end  is  carried  out  on  a 
flat-boat  in  a  long  loop  down  stream,  brought  to  the 
land  and  pulled  in  by  horses.  Many  fish  are  also 
caught  in  traps.     A  trap  consists  of  a  line  of  poles 


Along  the  Columbia  251 

driven  into  the  river  bottom  near  shore  with  wire 
netting  fastened  to  them.  The  fish  come  to  the  wire 
and  feel  their  way  along  until  they  are  in  a  kind  of 
pocket  at  the  end  whence  they  are  not  able  to  find  their 
way  out.  Down  at  the  bottom  of  the  pocket  is  a  net, 
and  when  this  is  raised,  up  come  the  fish,  and  the 
fisherman  reaches  in  and  takes  them  out. 

Most  of  the  river  hamlets  are  rude  and  small,  and 
with  the  dark  fir  woods  closely  environing  them  they 
seemed  lonely  and  much  cut  off  from  the  world.  But 
sources  of  pleasure  are  by  no  means  entirely  lacking. 
At  one  place  where  I  stopped  they  were  to  have  a  dance 
that  evening  including  a  midnight  supper  at  a  dollar 
a  ticket.  The  clouds  began  to  threaten  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  young  folks  were  a  good  deal  concerned  lest 
it  should  rain  and  hurt  the  success  of  their  entertain- 
ment. The  girl  who  waited  on  the  table  at  the  one 
village  restaurant  was  especially  anxious.  Those  on 
whom  she  waited  were  mostly  fishermen  and  railroad 
workers  in  overalls  and  shirt  sleeves.  They  talked 
dance  and  they  talked  fish,  and  they  chaffed  the  girl. 
She  talked  back  and  added  liveliness  to  the  occasion  by 
snatching  back  the  dishes  just  as  she  was  about  to 
deliver  them  into  the  hands  of  the  eaters,  or  she  would 
give  a  slap  to  the  paper  one  fellow  was  reading  every 
time  she  passed.  The  room  was  rough  in  its  appoint- 
ments, and  the  food  as  a  whole  was  not  very  satisfying, 


252     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

but  the  boiled  salmon  was  delicious  and  the  quantity 
served  most  generous. 

Across  the  way  from  the  restaurant  was  a  grocery 
store;  and  the  sign  painted  on  the  three  panes  of  glass 
that  formed  the  diminutive  show  window  read  thus: 
I  DAN  I  FOW  I  LER  |.  This  had  a  short-syllabled 
suggestion  that  the  proprietor  was  Chinese.  Near  by  was 
another  business  which  had  a  similar  sign,  only  this  sign 
ran  across  two  windows  with  a  substantial  sepa- 
ration between  as  follows:  |  SAL  |  |  OON  |. 
Judging  from  English  associations  with  the  names,  Dan 
Fow  Ler  was  a  man,  and  Sal  Oon  a  woman.  On 
the  whole,  I  concluded  some  sign  painter  with  a  relish 
for  a  joke  had  been  travelling  on  the  coast.  I  saw 
other  signs  of  the  sort  and  recall  one  in  particular 
covering  the  front  of  a  building  but  with  a  window  in 
the  middle  of  it  so  that  the  letters  were  grouped  like 


this:    LOD 


GING. 


From  the  village  where  I  had  stopped  on  the  Colum- 
bia I  rambled  back  up  a  hollow  past  several  homes 
with  garden  patches  and  a  few  fruit  trees  and  small 
fields  about  them.  In  the  near  woodland  the  dogwood 
bushes  were  full  of  their  white  wings,  and  the  roadside 
was  aglow  with  dandelions.  But  when  I  went  on  I  did 
not  have  to  go  far  into  the  forest  before  I  found  that  a 
fire  had  run  through  it,  and  few  trees  had  survived. 


Along  the  Columbia  253 

Some  still  stood,  bare  and  dead,  and  many  had  fallen 
making  the  earth  a  chaos  of  their  shattered  and  black- 
ened  trunks.  For  several  miles  I  plodded  on  and  every- 
where saw  naught  but  the  charred  and  melancholy 
woodland  ruins.  It  looked  as  if  the  region  could  never 
again  know  the  beautiful,  tall  green  forest  that  had 
formerly  grown  here.  Some  of  the  wilderness  fires  run 
over  vast  areas  and  even  destroy  homes  and  lives,  but 
most  of  the  woodland  is  now  owned  by  the  lumber 
companies,  and  they  take  many  precautions  to  prevent 
or  fight  fires  that  used  to  be  neglected.  The  law  compels 
the  burning  of  the  winter  slashings,  and  this  has  to  be 
done  early  while  the  ground  is  still  moist  so  that  the 
fires  will  not  run  through  the  woods.  The  entire 
Columbia  Valley  was  dim  and  blue  and  often  the 
opposite  shore  faded  into  ghostly  vagueness  by  reason 
of  the  smoke  from  the  slashings. 

To  see  the  river  at  its  best  one  should  make  the  jour- 
ney from  Portland  to  the  Dalles,  a  distance  of  nearly 
one  hundred  miles.  The  railroad  is  close  to  the  shore 
much  of  the  way  and  the  views  from  the  car  window 
are  quite  entrancing,  but  it  is  only  from  the  river  steam- 
ers that  one  gets  the  full  beauty  of  the  scenes.  As  you 
go  up  the  river  the  valley  is  at  first  broad  and  pastoral, 
a  succession  of  billowy  hills  with  their  farmlands  and 
forest,  their  scattered  homes  and  grazing  lands.  Grad- 
ually the  hills  lift  into  wooded  bluffs,  and  you  at  times 


254     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

find  rocky  precipices  rising  from  the  water's  edge,  or 
lonely  pinnacles  like  monster  monuments.  The  stream 
resembles  the  most  romantic  portions  of  the  Hudson 
in  its  scenery,  but  it  is  an  untamed  river  of  the  wilder- 
ness with  a  vigor  and  a  charm  all  its  own.  Willows  and 
cottonwoods  fringe  the  shores,  but  the  crags  and 
slopes  are  almost  solidly  clothed  with  evergreens. 

At  intervals  some  little  village  found  a  clinging  place 
in  a  dell  among  the  rocks,  and  these  forest  hamlets 
looked  very  attractive  and  Swiss-like  in  their  mountain 
environment.  Perhaps  the  most  pleasing  of  them  is 
Cascade  Locks  at  a  spot  where  the  river  breaks  into  a 
foaming  tumult  of  rapids  and  the  shores  rise  in  great 
rocky  ranges  on  either  side.  The  homes  hide  among 
the  trees,  and  the  land  is  a  medley  of  steep  hills  and 
irregular  hollows.  Everyone  apparently  built  as  fancy 
dictated,  and  the  houses  were  most  picturesquely 
scattered,  some  on  the  bluffs  overlooking  the  river, 
some  on  the  little  heights  farther  back,  some  in  the 
green  dells  with  perhaps  a  mountain  rivulet,  crystal 
clear,  tumbling  along  through  the  dooryard.  If  you 
followed  the  narrow  roads  and  paths  that  linked  the 
houses  together  you  were  always  twisting  and  turning, 
climbing  or  descending,  but  the  sudden  surprises  of  the 
views  were  ample  payment  for  the  exertion. 

Wherever  there  was  a  rift  in  the  trees  in  the  direction 
of  the  stream,  you  saw  its  foaming  waters  and  the  big 


:4     *  KM 


:  j      x 


Woodland  i 


Along  the  Columbia  255 

stony  terraces  of  the  mountains  beyond,  while  in  the 
other  direction  the  shattered  cliffs  towered  into  the  sky, 
calm  and  majestic  guardians  of  the  vale.  Formerly, 
according  to  an  Indian  legend,  the  river  here  was 
spanned  by  a  mighty  natural  bridge,  beneath  which  the 
water  flowed  smoothly  in  an  unbroken  channel,  and  the 
red  men  were  accustomed  to  cross  the  bridge  in  their 
travels  and  local  intercourse.  At  one  time  there  lived 
on  the  Oregon  side  an  Indian  brave  whom  the  gods 
regarded  with  much  favor.  While  hunting  on  the 
Washington  side  he  met  and  fell  in  love  with  an  Indian 
maiden  of  a  neighboring  tribe.  Presently  he  married 
her  and  they  started  together  for  his  home.  But  when 
about  to  cross  the  bridge,  disappointed  suitors  and 
others  of  the  maiden's  tribe  leaped  out  from  an  ambush. 
The  two  hastened  on  across  the  bridge,  and  no  sooner 
had  they  reached  the  Oregon  side  than  they  heard  a 
tremendous  crash,  and  looking  around  they  saw  that 
the  great  bridge  had  fallen  carrying  the  wrathful 
pursuers  to  their  death.  Thus  the  gods  showed  their 
love  for  the  young  brave.  The  fall  of  the  bridge  formed 
the  rapids  which  have  obstructed  the  white  man's 
navigation. 

The  village  came  into  being  as  a  portage  place;  for 
steamers  could  not  get  over  the  rapids,  and  their  cargoes 
had  to  be  transferred  a  half  mile  across  a  neck  of  land. 
Now  the  government  has  built  locks,  and  the  steamers 


256     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

pass  on.  These  locks  have  cost  three  or  four  million 
dollars,  probably  twice  what  a  private  concern  would 
have  paid  for  the  same  work.  The  investment  is  entirely 
out  of  proportion  to  any  present  business  done  through 
the  locks.  The  cost  of  maintenance  is  considerable 
and  the  daily  passage  of  four  of  the  flat-bottomed  river 
steamers  constitutes  practically  all  the  traffic.  As  one 
man  said  to  me,  "The  business  won't  pay  for  the  axle- 
grease  used." 

In  earlier  days  the  local  fishing  was  an  important 
industry,  but  salmon  are  not  as  plentiful  here  as  they 
were.  Below  the  locks  are  numerous  fish-wheels 
along  the  shores.  They  are  a  striking  feature  of 
the  landscape,  for  they  are  from  twenty  to  forty 
feet  in  diameter  and  six  or  eight  feet  across.  Each 
pair  of  spokes  is  fitted  with  a  great  wire-meshed 
scoop.  The  wheel  is  adjusted  in  a  substantial 
framework,  and  the  current  revolves  it  and  keeps  the 
scoops  lifting  from  the  water.  A  stout  lattice  dam 
reaches  out  from  the  wheel  with  a  sharp  slant  down 
stream,  and  there  is  a  boom  moored  above  to  protect 
the  whole  structure  from  drift  rubbish.  The  dam 
guides  the  fish  to  the  wheel,  and  the  first  thing  they 
know  they  are  hoisted  in  the  air,  fall  into  an  inclined 
trough  at  the  hub,  from  which  they  flop  down  at  one 
side  onto  a  platform,  or  into  an  inclosure  of  water 
where  the  fishermen  can  get  them  at  their  convenience. 


Along  the  Columbia  257 

It  is  customary  to  string  the  fish  on  wires  and  attach 
them  to  a  half-barrel  which  acts  as  a  buoy  and  drop 
them  into  the  stream.  Arrangements  have  been  made 
with  a  cannery  down  the  river,  where  a  man  is  on  the 
watch  for  them,  and  when  a  buoy  comes  in  sight  he 
goes  out  in  a  launch  and  gets  the  fish.  Sometimes  as 
many  as  a  ton  are  attached  to  a  single  half-barrel. 

The  chief  resort  for  persons  of  leisure  in  the  village 
was  the  porch  of  a  tiny  butcher's  shop.  Thence  you 
could  look  down  from  the  hillock  where  the  shop  stood 
and  see  two  or  three  other  small  places  of  business,  a 
hotel  and  the  station.  This  was  the  heart  of  the  hamlet, 
but  there  was  seldom  enough  transpiring  to  rouse  the 
loiterers  from  their  dreamy  lethargy.  Occasionally 
there  were  attempts  at  joviality,  but  the  sluggish  social 
current  was  only  slightly  stirred  thereby.  One  man 
tried  his  wit  several  times  on  a  gnarled  old  citizen  with 
a  brush  of  gray  whiskers  under  his  chin  who  was 
absorbed  in  a  newspaper.  But  the  latter  would  only 
glance  reluctantly  over  his  spectacles,  make  a  short 
response  and  return  to  his  reading.  Finally  the  joker 
said,  "  Did  you  know  I  was  a  Norwegian  ?" 

The  reader  looked  up  and  a  smile  overspread  his 
somber  features.  "Wal,"  he  replied,  "I  guess  ye  are  a 
good  deal  north  of  wegian." 

The  joker  saw  that  he  had  been  worsted  at  his  own 
game,  and  he  walked  away.     Shortly  afterward  we  had 


258     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

a  new  accession  to  our  group.  He  was  a  brisk  elderly 
man,  who  as  he  stepped  onto  the  porch  regaled  us  with 
a  couplet  of  a  song  which  ran  in  this  wise: 

"  Happy  land,  happy  land! 
Breaking  stones  and  wheeling  sand." 

He  went  into  the  shop,  and  the  butcher  asked  him 
why  he  hadn't  bought  any  meat  of  him  lately. 

"  I  ain't  eaten  no  beefsteak  for  a  month,"  replied  the 
singer.     "  It  don't  agree  with  me." 

"If  you  stop  eatin'  and  buyin'  meat  how'm  I  goin'  to 
live  ?"  said  the  butcher. 

"Well,"  responded  the  singer,  "that's  your  lookout. 
I  can't  kill  myself  to  make  the  butcher  live." 

So  saying  he  came  out  on  the  porch  and  sat  down  on 
a  keg.  We  got  to  talking  and  among  other  things  spoke 
of  the  fishing.  "The  salmon  have  been  kind  o'  played 
out  the  last  few  years  up  here,"  said  he,  "and  when  a 
fish-wheel  gets  worn  out  or  stove  up  we  don't  trouble 
to  repair  it,  and  there's  seldom  any  new  ones  built. 
But  a  good  many  are  in  use  yet.  It's  the  easiest  way 
of  fishin'  that  there  is.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  set  and 
watch  the  salmon  get  caught.  You  don't  find  any 
wheels  below  Portland.  The  current  ain't  strong 
enough.     The  wheels  does  best  in  quick  water. 

"A  dozen  years  ago  this  here  river  was  full  of  salmon. 
I've  taken  a  dip  net  and  stood  on  the  shore  and  thrown 
half  a  ton  out  in  a  single  day.    The  net  was  on  the  end 


Along  the  Columbia  259 

of  a  sixteen  foot  pole,  and  I'd  just  let  it  down  and  then 
lift  it  up.  The  water  was  generally  too  riley  for  me  to 
see  the  fish.  There  was  lots  of  fun  and  excitement 
when  they  was  comin'  fast.  I've  dipped  out  three  blue- 
backs  to  a  lick,  and  once  I  got  a  Royal  Chinook  that 
weighed  sixty-eight  pounds.  He  was  a  whopper; 
but  we  didn't  use  to  be  paid  only  two  cents  a  pound." 

While  we  were  chatting,  a  laborer  passed,  shouldering 
a  roll  of  blankets.  The  butcher  had  come  to  the  door, 
and  he  pointed  to  the  passer  and  said,  "You  see  that 
feller  don't  you  ?  Well,  when  I  first  reached  here  from 
the  East  I  thought  a  man  with  his  bed  on  his  back 
was  the  funniest  thing  I'd  ever  come  across;  but  a 
rancher  in  this  country  won't  take  his  hired  man  into 
his  house.  They've  got  to  furnish  their  own  blankets 
and  usually  sleep  on  the  hay  in  the  barn.  I  know  a 
feller  who,  when  he'd  just  arrived  and  didn't  understand 
the  ways  they  manage,  got  a  job  harvesting  on  a  big 
wheat  ranch.  The  help  are  apt  to  sleep  in  the  straw 
stacks  then,  and  it's  precious  little  time  they  get  to 
sleep  anywhere;  but  he  didn't  know  anything  about 
that,  and  he  was  sitting  around  in  the  evening,  and  he 
says  to  the  rancher,  'Where  am  I  goin'  to  sleep  tonight  ?' 

"  'Why,  I  don't  care  where  you  sleep,'  says  the 
rancher.  'I've  got  nine  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of  land 
around  here,  and  if  you  can't  find  a  place  to  sleep  on 
that,  I'll  get  my  next  neighbor  to  lend  me  a  piece  of  his.' 


260     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"A  man  usually  rolls  up  in  his  blankets  on  the  hay 
in  the  barn.  At  the  sawmills  here  the  employers 
furnish  a  tent,  or  shack,  and  boards  to  build  a  bunk  and 
some  hay  to  put  in  the  bottom  of  the  bunk,  and  then 
the  worker  fixes  up  to  suit  himself.  Yes,  it's  only 
hoboes  who  travel  without  blankets.  When  you  see  a 
man  knockin'  around  this  country  empty-handed  and 
lookin'  for  work,  you  can  be  dead  sure  he's  prayin'  to 
God  never  to  find  it." 

At  the  village  hotel,  among  a  few  other  transients 
was  a  watch-peddler.  He  was  eighty-six  years  old, 
bowed  and  gray,  but  still  brisk  and  hearty.  He  had  a 
neat  little  grip  packed  with  the  watches  and  with  a 
variety  of  chains,  fobs  and  jewelry,  and  he  not  only 
sold  from  this  stock,  but  did  repairing.  He  mentioned 
one  family  in  the  place  to  which  he  had  sold  eleven 
watches,  "and  good  ones,  too."  His  sales  to  that 
particular  family  would  have  been  fewer  had  it  not  been 
that  its  head  was  a  logging  laborer  on  the  river,  and 
occasionally  lost  a  watch  in  the  water.  The  peddler 
had  been  in  the  country  for  many  years,  and  he  had 
observed  much  and  intelligently.  I  was  interested  in 
his  views  of  the  difference  between  life  in  New  England 
and  in  the  Far  West. 

"  I  remember  very  well  my  father's  house  back  in 
Vermont,"  said  he  one  evening  as  we  were  sitting 
together  in  the  hotel  office.     "  It  was  big  and  substantial 


In  (i  village  on  the  Columbia 


Along    the  Columbia  261 

and  we  had  a  nice  garden  and  raised  all  sorts  of  things 
for  our  own  eating.  My  father,  as  affairs  went  then  and 
in  that  region,  was  a  rich  man.  He  owned  a  good  farm 
and  had  four  or  five  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank. 
Everybody  called  him  Uncle  Joe,  and  if  anyone  needed 
to  borrow  they'd  come  to  him.  They  didn't  borrow 
very  heavy.  A  hundred  dollars  was  a  big  pile  for  a 
man  to  go  in  debt  them  days — that's  what  it  was!  My 
father  wa'n't  an  eddicated  man.  It  was  my  mother 
learned  him  to  write  after  they  was  married.  He  used 
to  do  most  of  his  figgering  with  a  piece  of  charcoal  on 
a  board. 

"When  I  first  came  out  here  I  took  up  a  claim,  and 
I  had  a  neighbor  on  one  side  of  me  that  was  nicknamed 
'Gassy'  Smith  because  he  talked  so  much,  and  on  the 
other  side  lived  a  man  called  'Hog'  Jones  who  was  so 
stingy  he  wa'n't  fit  to  live.  Hog  was  well  off,  but  he 
was  like  this — if  you  was  to  buy  a  bushel  of  wheat  of 
him  that  was  worth  seventy-five  cents  he'd  make  you 
pay  two  dollars  for  it  if  he  possibly  could.  Most  of  the 
people  around  were  Southern,  and  they  were  copper- 
heads of  the  worst  kind,  while  I  was  a  republican. 
They  didn't  like  me  a  little  bit,  and  even  threatened  to 
shoot  me,  but  I  tried  to  treat  'em  right  and  did  'em  any 
favors  I  could,  and  they  got  over  that. 

"  My  son  has  a  farm  out  here  now.  His  house  looks 
as  if  it  had  stood  where  it  is  for  seventeen  hundred 


262     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

years,  but  I  don't  suppose  it  has  for  fifty.  It's  the 
darndest  old  shack  you  ever  saw,  but  that  don't 
seem  to  trouble  him  any.  He's  got  the  Western  habit 
of  not  payin'  much  attention  to  the  home  surroundings. 
The  country  here  is  developing  all  the  time,  but  the 
houses  is  dreadful  little  improved  over  what  they  were 
twenty  years  ago.  I've  stayed  at  houses  so  poorly 
built  and  neglected  the  sand  blowed  in  the  cracks 
across  the  floor.  You  rarely  find  a  good  henhouse,  or 
stable,  or  barn,  or  a  woodshed  properly  filled.  Usually 
the  wood  is  just  a  pile  in  the  yard  exposed  to  the  weather, 
and  there's  not  much  cut  up  ahead.  They  haul  it  a 
load  at  a  time,  and  I've  seen  'em  do  the  splitting  by 
leaning  the  sticks  against  the  wagon  tongue.  Often, 
in  order  to  handle  a  fallen  tree  and  make  it  into  cord 
wood  lengths,  they  bore  two  holes  with  a  long  augur 
into  the  center  of  the  tree  at  different  angles  so  they'll 
meet.  This  they  do  at  each  place  where  they  want  to 
cut  it  off,  then  drop  a  live  coal  into  one  of  each  pair  of 
augur  holes  and  the  coals  burn  through  the  log  and 
reduce  it  roughly  into  sections  that  can  be  handled. 
The  method  is  wasteful,  but  it  saves  the  trouble  of 
sawing. 

"Our  farms  have  great  natural  resources,  and  it 
seems  curious  the  people  should  be  too  lazy  to  raise 
vegetables  and  the  like  o'  that;  and  yet  they  are. 
Oh,  my,  I  should  say  so!    The  ranches  all  have  smoke- 


Along  the  Columbia  263 

houses  and  their  meat  food  is  mostly  pork,  but  in  the 
villages  beef  is  common,  only  the  beef  is  apt  to  be  this 
dry,  tough  Coast  sort.  It  ain't  like  the  juicy  tender 
beef  you  get  in  the  East.  Not  much  corn  is  grown  here 
to  fatten  the  creatures  with,  and  in  most  parts  they 
have  to  do  a  lot  of  tramping  over  the  range  to  get 
enough  to  eat.  Exercise  and  poor  feed  makes  the  meat 
tough  and  the  cattle  small  and  lean.  You  let  a  man 
from  here  see  the  way  cattle  are  given  corn  in  the 
East — all  they  will  eat — and  his  eyes  would  fall  right 
out  of  his  head  with  surprise. 

"I've  stopped  at  ranches  to  get  dinner  where  they 
wouldn't  furnish  me  anything  but  bread  and  milk, 
and  darn  poor  bread  at  that.  Even  then  they  wa'n't 
hardly  satisfied  with  twenty-five  cents  to  pay  for  it. 
Good  Lord!  I've  been  to  places  where  they  had  any 
amount  o'  cows  and  yet  not  a  mite  of  butter.  Most 
men  get  to  own  their  places  clear,  but  they  seldom 
have  money  laid  by.  However,  there  are  some  men 
who  in  the  larger  enterprises  of  the  region  make  their 
fortunes.  I  know  one  fellow  who  came  into  this  village 
with  fifty  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  he  became  a  partner 
in  the  sawmill.  A  few  years  later  he  sold  out  his  interest 
for  sixty  thousand  dollars.  He  was  a  smart,  sharp, 
devilish  good  man,  I  tell  yer.  When  he  got  his  cash  he 
left.  He  didn't  build  here  or  spend  any  of  his  money 
here." 


264     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"No,"  said  a  young  fellow  who  with  a  companion 
was  playing  cards  at  a  neighboring  table,  "of  course 
he  didn't.  A  man  with  wealth  has  no  business  living 
in  a  hole  like  this.  What  enjoyment  is  there  here  for 
him  ?     He  goes,  and  he  goes  quick,  you  betcher!" 

No  doubt  the  confines  of  life  in  the  river  village  were 
narrow,  but  I  could  not  feel  that  it  was  so  blank  as 
this  young  man  claimed.  Certainly  nature  had  done 
much  for  the  place,  and  the  wild  charm  of  mountains 
and  forest  and  stream  surrounding  could  not  easily 
be  surpassed. 

Note. — By  all  means  visit  Astoria,  and  see  the  lower  river  and  its 
wilderness  hamlets  and  its  fishermen  and  woodsmen.  Astoria  itself 
is  remarkably  picturesque,  and  is  especially  interesting  when  the 
salmon  fishing  is  in  progress.  The  portion  of  the  river  that  is  most 
romantic  and  imposing  in  its  setting  of  cliffs  and  mountains  is  the 
hundred  miles  above  Portland.  This  should  be  seen  from  the  deck 
of  a  river  steamer.  If  possible,  make  a  stay  at  some  of  the  little 
villages  along  shore.  They  are  all  charming,  but  I  am  inclined  to 
think  Cascade  Locks  is  more  so  than  any  of  the  others.  Its  surround- 
ings with  the  big  mountains  and  the  noisy  tumult  of  the  river,  and  its 
nestling  seclusion  on  the  wooded  irregularities  of  the  banks  will  never 
be  forgotten  by  those  who  pay  it  a  visit. 


XIII 

ON    THE    SHORES    OF    PUGET   SOUND 

THE  place  where  I  stopped  longest  in  the  Puget 
Sound  country  was  a  scattered  settlement  of 
five  thousand  people  which  was  old  as  age  goes 
in  the  Northwest.  Its  most  commanding  height  was 
crowned  with  a  big  school-building,  and  there  were 
little  church  spires  sticking  up  all  about.  "We're 
supplied  with  pretty  near  every  creed  and  denomination 
you  can  think  of,"  declared  one  citizen  proudly. 

As  I  was  rambling  through  the  town  on  my  first 
evening  there  a  church  bell  that  I  judged  from  the 
sound  was  one  size  larger  than  a  hand  bell,  began  to 
ding-dong  not  far  away.  I  was  on  the  same  street  as 
the  church  and  presently  came  to  the  edifice.  Several 
boys  were  climbing  up  to  look  in  the  windows  and  then 
jumping  down.  "I  see  him!"  they  cried  excitedly. 
"I  see  the  crazy  man!" 

The  bell  now  ceased  its  clamor,  and  I  concluded  to 
attend  service.  I  entered  and  found  a  Young  People's 
Meeting  in  progress.  Outside  I  could  hear  the  boys 
scuffling  at  the  windows.     After  a  while  a  man  in  the 

265 


266     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

audience  rose  and  left  the  room.  He  was  shabbily 
dressed,  his  hair  was  tousled,  his  looks  vacant  and  his 
step  shuffling.  He  was  the  crazy  man.  Nearly  all  in  the 
room  turned  to  watch  him  go,  and  among  the  children 
there  was  much  snickering  which  was  long  in  subsiding. 

After  the  meeting  came  to  an  end  there  was  a  second 
meeting  in  a  larger  room  across  the  hall  for  the  entire 
congregation.  The  gathering  was  small,  but  the 
service  had  considerable  vim  in  it.  The  singing,  with 
the  cabinet  organ  to  lead,  was  particularly  energetic, 
though  the  hard  metallic  tones  of  the  voices  savored 
of  the  uncultured  wilderness.  The  region  is  still  raw 
and  youthful,  and  delicacy  of  feeling  and  expression 
will  come  later.  The  regular  preacher  was  away,  and 
a  member  of  the  congregation  who  had  a  knack  for 
speaking  took  his  place.  He  looked  like  a  reformed 
bartender — stout  figured,  with  a  narrow  forehead,  a 
heavy  mustache  and  a  hoarse,  loud  voice.  When  he 
rose  to  begin  his  sermon  he  said,  "There  was  an  old 
farmer  went  to  town  to  buy  a  clock,  and  the  storekeeper 
showed  him  one,  and  says,  'Here's  a  clock  that  will 
run  eight  days  without  winding.' 

"'Gracious!'  says  the  farmer,  'and  if  she  will  run 
eight  days  without  winding  how  long  will  she  run  if 
you  wind  her  ?' 

"Now,  I  ain't  been  wound  up  for  eight  days  myself, 
so  there's  no  knowing  how  long  I'd  run  if  I  had  been 


Mtti J i hi'  a  shoe 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  267 

wound  up.  I'm  goin'  to  talk  to  you  tonight  about  the 
Bible.  The  Bible  ain't  just  one  book.  It's  many  books 
put  together.    How  many  books  are  there  in  the  Bible  ?" 

He  paused,  tipped  his  head  on  one  side  and  raised 
his  eyebrows  inquiringly.  There  was  a  blank  silence. 
"Don't  all  speak  at  once,"  he  cautioned  jokingly. 

"Sixty-six,"  responded  a  faint  voice  in  the  audience. 

"Yes,"  said  the  preacher,  "and  sixty-six  books  is 
a  good  big  library;  but  if  you  was  to  go  and  collect  all 
the  books  that  have  been  written  about  the  Bible  or 
been  inspired  by  it  you  would  have  thousands — ain't 
that  right  ? 

"The  Bible  wa'n't  given  to  the  world  all  complete. 
It  was  given  gradually— first  a  little  for  Adam,  then 
more  for  Abraham  and  his  family,  and  later  still  more 
for  the  Jewish  people.  But  finally  it  was  all  given  and 
was  for  the  whole  world.  The  climax  of  God's  work 
was  to  send  Christ  down  here  on  the  earth,  and  Christ 
came  to  save  the  people  of  his  day,  and  he  came  to  save 
you  and  I.  This  was  a  savage  old  world  then.  You 
take  the  thumb-screw  and  the  stretchers  and  gulletin 
and  the  gladiator  which  was  all  a-flourishin' — it  was 
time  for  judgment,  and  the  Christian  religion  was 
necessary." 

At  the  close  of  the  service  the  fact  that  I  was  a 
stranger  led  a  number  to  shake  hands  and  introduce 
themselves  and   say  a  friendly  word.     This  reception 


268     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

was  very  pleasant,  but  the  greetings  were  coupled  with 
some  extras  I  did  not  so  much  appreciate.  One  asked 
me  if  I  was  a  Christian,  another  if  I  was  a  Baptist  the 
same  as  they  were,  and  they  all  wanted  to  know  if  I 
was  going  to  settle  there,  and  one  tried  his  best  to  direct 
me  to  the  office  of  a  relative  who  was  a  real  estate  agent. 

Along  the  borders  of  the  town  ran  a  swift,  deep  river, 
and  on  its  banks  were  sawmills  and  shingle  mills.  All 
through  the  day  the  air  was  shrilled  with  the  sound 
of  the  demoniac  saws  and  the  panting  of  engines. 
Every  mill  had  its  great  piles  of  sawed  lumber  about 
and  its  heap  of  burning  waste  constantly  crackling  and 
sending  up  a  cloud  of  smoke.  The  region  contains  the 
finest  and  largest  body  of  timber  in  existence,  but  it  is 
fast  going.  "When  I  come  here  four  years  ago,"  said 
one  man,  "nearly  all  the  roads  leading  out  of  town  was 
hardly  wider  than  the  wheel  tracks  and  was  closed  in 
on  both  sides  by  heavy  forest.  You  couldn't  hardly 
see  daylight,  but  gee  whiz!  it's  a  fright  the  way  the 
forest  has  been  cleared  up,  and  now  those  same  roads 
are  lined  with  farms.  In  a  few  years  more  there'll  be 
none  of  the  best  forest  left." 

One  afternoon  I  went  back  into  the  woodland  to 
see  some  of  it  that  had  been  untouched.  I  followed 
a  logging  railroad,  starting  at  a  spot  four  miles  out  of 
town  where  they  dumped  the  logs  from  the  cars  into 
the  river.     I  was  soon  in  genuine  Puget  Sound  forest 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  269 

where  except  for  the  railroad  the  woodsmen  had  as 
yet  done  no  work.  This  particular  section  had  been 
neglected  because  the  trees  were  mostly  hemlocks, 
timber  which  is  comparatively  valueless.  But  they 
were  wonderful  trees,  straight  as  arrows,  clean-stemmed, 
crowded,  and  astounding  in  their  towering  height. 
The  fires  had  never  run  through  them,  and  for  once  I 
saw  woodland  as  nature  intended  it  should  be.  No 
matter  how  fierce  the  winds  might  be  that  swept  the 
tree  tops  they  could  not  ruffle  the  forest  depths.  Here 
eternal  quiet  reigned.  Here  was  always  coolness  and 
moisture  and  twilight,  even  at  midday.  Here  grew 
the  green  mosses  and  tangled  shrubbery,  and  great  ferns 
of  almost  tropical  luxuriance.  Here  lay  the  trees  that 
had  died  and  fallen,  but  which  by  reason  of  size  and 
the  dampness  were  many,  many  years  in  crumbling 
into  mould.  So  encumbered  was  the  ground  with  the 
rough,  rank  mass  of  decay  and  so  thick  was  the  under- 
growth that  one  would  find  the  task  of  pushing  a  way 
through  well  nigh  impossible. 

The  wilderness  was  sober  and  almost  silent.  Some- 
times a  bird  sang,  sometimes  a  squirrel  chattered.  In 
oneglade  a  dogwood  had  opened  some  scattered  blossoms, 
and  I  saw  occasional  wake-robins — wild  lilies,  they 
were  called  locally,  and  a  few  skunk  cabbage  plants, 
each  thrusting  up  a  great  yellow  flower  from  amid  the 
green  leaves. 


270     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

Presently  I  came  to  a  chopper's  camp  in  a  clearing. 
How  sorry  it  did  look! — a  group  of  board  shanties 
amid  a  stark,  staring  desolation  of  brush  and  a  few 
standing  dead  trees,  while  back  behind  was  nature's 
green  forest  temple.  Yet  though  nature  had  been  ages 
in  upbuilding,  man  would  soon  bring  the  slender  pillars 
and  graceful  arches  tumbling  to  earth,  and  their  like 
would  be  seen  no  more  in  that  place  forever.  I  kept 
on,  following  the  railroad  in  its  sinuous  way  through 
the  forest.  Now,  the  land  on  either  side  had  been  cut 
over,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I  could  hear  on  ahead 
the  light  steady  blows  of  axes  and  at  frequent  intervals 
the  throbbing  and  hissing  of  some  horrible  steam 
monster.  This  monster  proved  to  be  a  donkey  engine 
hauling  logs  to  the  loading  place.  It  was  firmly  fas- 
tened to  several  standing  trees  and  it  dragged  the  logs 
by  means  of  a  stout  wire  cable.  What  a  snorting, 
thunderous  creature  it  was,  and  how  startling  the 
sudden  screeches  of  its  whistle.  The  very  trees  might 
well  have  fallen  in  terror  at  the  racket  it  made.  The 
energy  it  displayed  was  astonishing  as  it  brought  the 
great  logs  crashing  through  the  woods  over  the  hillocks 
and  through  the  hollows,  scraping  off  the  bark  and 
smearing  them  all  over  with  mud.  Once  on  the  landing 
platform  the  log  was  released  and  by  means  of  another 
cable  the  engine  rolled  it  on  to  one  of  the  waiting  cars. 


Starting  to  fell  a  giant  cedar 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  271 

A  little  farther  up  in  the  woods  the  men  were  felling 
trees.  Two  worked  together.  The  trees  grow  very 
large  at  the  base,  and  for  the  first  ten  feet  taper  rapidly. 
To  save  time  they  are  cut  well  up  above  where  the 
great  sinews  reach  out  to  grip  the  earth.  Six  feet  is 
perhaps  a  usual  height,  but  I  saw  old  stumps  on  the 
lowlands  of  twice  that  altitude.  The  cedar  stumps 
continue  sound  indefinitely,  and  many  years  perhaps 
after  the  choppers  have  done  their  work  and  the  fires 
have  burned  the  brush,  these  stumps  are  cut  into  fifty- 
two  inch  lengths  and  split  up  into  shingle  bolts  that 
look  like  short  heavy  pieces  of  cord  wood.  "  But  it  ain't 
first-class  material,"  explained  one  man.  "The  grain 
is  any  way  and  every  way,  and  there's  a  good  deal  of 
complaint  about  the  shingles  we're  turning  out." 

When  preparing  to  fell  a  tree  each  of  the  two  choppers 
makes  a  notch  on  opposite  sides  of  the  trunk  about 
three  feet  from  the  ground  and  inserts  a  short  board 
that  has  on  the  end  a  sharp  upturned  edge  of  iron. 
The  iron  catches,  and  the  board  projects  horizontally. 
On  these  supports  the  choppers  stand,  and  they  per- 
haps will  cut  other  notches  and  insert  boards  and  go 
up  a  stage  or  two  higher.  The  task  of  severing  the 
trunk  is  begun  by  making  an  undercut  which  will 
brino;  the  tree  down  in  a  particular  direction,  and  then 
they  finish  from  the  other  side  with  a  long  saw. 


272     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

The  trees  sometimes  have  a  diameter  of  a  dozen  feet. 
The  cedars,  in  particular,  reach  a  vast  girth,  and  in 
the  valley  by  the  roadside  was  one  with  a  circumference 
at  the  ground  of  sixty-three  feet,  and  near  by  was 
another  that  had  a  gothic  arch  cut  through  it  affording 
easy  passage  for  a  person  on  horseback.  But  the 
tallest  trees  are  the  firs.  Two  hundred  feet  is  a  very 
moderate  height  and  some  shoot  up  to  above  three 
hundred.  The  fall  of  one  of  the  monsters,  when  the 
woodsmen  have  cut  through  its  base,  is  something 
appalling.  As  the  tree  begins  to  give,  the  sawyers 
hustle  down  from  their  perch  and  seek  a  safe  distance. 
Then  they  look  upward  along  the  giant  column  and 
listen.     "She's  workin'  all  the  time,"  says  one. 

"Yes,"  agrees  the  other,  "you  can  hear  her  talkin';" 
and  he  gives  a  loud  cry  of  "Timber!"  to  warn  any 
fellow-laborers  who  may  be  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  creaking  and  snapping  increase,  and  the  tree 
swings  slowly  at  first,  but  soon  with  tremendous 
rapidity  and  crashes  down  through  the  forest  to  the 
earth.  There  is  a  flying  of  bark  and  broken  branches, 
and  the  air  is  filled  with  slow-settling  dust.  The  men 
climb  on  the  prostrate  giant  and  walk  along  the  broad 
pathway  of  the  trunk  to  see  how  it  lies.  What  pigmies 
they  seem  amid  the  mighty  trees  around!  The  ancient 
and  lofty  forest  could  well  look  down  on  them  and 
despise  their  short-lived  insignificance;    yet  their  per- 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  273 

sistence  and  ingenuity  are  irresistible,  and  the  woodland 
is  doomed. 

To  the  rear  of  those  who  do  the  felling  are  the 
buckers.  They  work  singly  and  cut  off  the  limbs  and 
saw  the  trunks  into  lengths.  They  climb  about  in  a 
chaos  of  wreckage,  sometimes  well  up  in  the  air,  some- 
times down  on  the  ground  out  of  sight.  "When  I 
hailed  from  the  East  out  here,"  said  one  worker,  "and 
they  put  me  to  bucking,  I  thought  that  was  a  pretty 
lonesome  job.  It  didn't  seem  like  a  hull  lot  o'  fun  for 
one  man  to  start  with  a  long  wiggling  saw  cutting  off 
a  log  seven  or  eight  feet  through.  But  that's  all  right 
now  I've  got  used  to  it." 

Perhaps  the  best  paid  wilderness  worker  is  the  hook 
tender  who  attaches  the  donkey  engine  cable  to  the 
logs.  His  is  a  dangerous  task  and  he  is  paid  four 
dollars  or  more  a  day.  The  head  fallers  get  three  and 
a  half,  the  second  fallers  three  and  a  quarter,  and  the 
swampers  who  delve  about  clearing  a  path  for  the 
railroad  receive  two  and  a  half.  Every  man  comes  to 
camp  with  his  own  blankets,  and  he  pays  five  dollars 
a  week  for  board.  "There's  quite  a  rakeoff  in  that," 
one  man  in  the  valley,  who  had  himself  been  a  chopper, 
explained  to  me;  "but  they  have  the  best  of  food 
and  a  first-class  cook.  It  would  do  your  heart  good  to 
eat  with  'em.  I've  stopped  at  many  a  hotel,  but  never 
had  food  served  yet  that  would  come  up  to  what  they 


274     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

have  in  the  logging  camps.  The  lumbermen  won't 
stay  no  time  at  all  unless  they  are  well  fed." 

The  buildings  at  the  camp  I  visited  in  the  woods  had 
roofs  and  sides  of  a  single  thickness  of  unplaned  boards. 
In  the  men's  home  quarters  were  bunks  in  a  double 
tier  along  the  walls — mere  boxes  with  a  continuous 
seat  down  below  along  the  front.  Each  man  fixed  up 
some  shelves  to  suit  himself  around  the  inside  of  the 
bunk  for  containing  his  belongings,  and  on  the  floor 
underneath  were  thrown  the  surplus  boots  and  other 
articles  not  especially  valued.  Every  projection  and 
cross  piece  was  hung  full  of  duds.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  stood  a  stout  stove  and  a  long  table.  This 
building  was  home  to  the  men  the  year  through,  for 
they  continue  cutting  in  winter  and  summer  alike. 

Their  chief  recreation  is  to  go  to  town  on  Saturday 
nights.  As  the  man  I  have  already  quoted  explained, 
"They've  got  money,  and  they  just  blow  it  in.  That 
there  is  the  logger  style  of  it.  If  they  saved  instead  of 
spending  they'd  all  be  rich.  There's  no  places  of 
amusement  in  the  town.  They  can  go  to  the  library 
and  sit  down  or  go  to  a  hotel  and  sit  down,  but  that 
don't  suit  'em.  No,  they  either  get  drunk  or  go  to  church. 
Some  take  in  both.  I've  seen  'em  at  church  pretty 
well  loaded. 

"Now,  I  want  to  tell  you,  my  friend,  they  wear  good 
clothes  when  they  go  to  town.     Say!  you'd  take  'em 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  275 

more  for  clerks  and  professional  men  than  loggers. 
Of  course  some  don't  give  a  cent  how  they  dress,  but 
that's  not  usual. 

"Saturday  nights  'bout  'leven  or  twelve  o'clock  you 
hear  'em  returnin'  along  the  road.  Mostly  they  hire 
a  rig  and  ride  to  the  camp,  eight  or  ten  fellers  to  a 
team.  Oh,  they're  sporty!  There's  nothing  too  good 
for  the  logger.  Take  'em  as  a  whole  they're  the  best 
class  of  men  I  ever  run  up  against.  They're  all  nation- 
alities, some  Americans,  some  Canadians  and  a  good 
many  Scandinavians.  Yes,  they're  pretty  darn  well 
mixed.  The  loggers  are  generous  and  always  take  up  a 
collection  if  someone  is  hurt  in  the  woods.  That  don't 
happen  often  considerin'  the  danger,  but  when  a  man 
does  get  it  he  gets  it  proper." 

The  region  I  was  visiting  was  in  many  respects  ideal 
farming  country  with  its  rich  soil,  near  markets  and 
facilities  for  transportation.  The  crops  of  potatoes  and 
other  vegetables  and  cereals  are  wonderful,  and  great 
quantities  are  produced  of  strawberries,  raspberries 
and  blackberries  of  the  finest  quality.  However,  as 
one  local  dweller  said,  "You  can't  get  anywhere  but 
that  there's  something  wrong  with  the  country,  I  don't 
care  where  it  is.  It's  damp  here,  and  that's  bad  for 
the  rheumatism;  but  the  main  thing  I  don't  like  is 
that  the  land  sells  for  more  than  it's  worth.  Cleared 
farm  land  within  three  or  four  miles  of  the  town  goes 


276     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

at  from  a  hundred  to  two  hundred  dollars  an  acre,  and 
that's  too  much." 

I  noticed  in  a  circular  sent  out  to  advertise  the  region 
it  was  stated  specifically  that  they  have  no  mosquitoes 
and  no  thunderstorms.  Like  most  circulars  for  Eastern 
readers  sent  from  the  Pacific  Coast  this  describes  a 
paradise  which  does  not  exist.  They  have  both  mos- 
quitoes and  thunderstorms  in  the  Puget  Sound  country, 
though  in  most  seasons  and  in  most  sections  these  are 
quite  mild.  "But  the  thunderstorms  we  had  last 
summer,"  said  one  informant,  "was  heavy  and  no 
mistake.  They  seemed  to  skip  us  right  here  though, 
and  the  ground  got  awful  dry.  I'd  see  a  storm  comin' 
up  black  as  tar,  and  it  would  make  me  boiling  mad  to 
watch  it  swing  off  over  the  hills  where  it  wa'n't  needed 
and  leave  us  as  dry  as  ever." 

Land  that  I  called  cleared  seemed  almost  non- 
existent. By  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  I  did  now  and 
then  observe  a  clean  field,  but  nearly  all  the  farms  were 
very  much  encumbered  with  stumps  and  brush.  There 
are  stumps  even  when  the  land  is  cultivated,  black  and 
massive,  dotting  the  fields  like  gravestone  memorials 
to  the  dead  forest.  Often  stumps  were  standing  in  the 
dooryards  close  about  the  homes,  some  of  them  nearly 
as  tali  as  the  buildings.  "I  tell  you  what  I  seen,"  a 
native  remarked  to  me.  "In  my  pasture  there's  a 
hollow  stump  so  big  that  sometimes  five  or  six  cattle 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  277 

will  get  into  it  as  a  sort  of  shelter.  By  gol!  that  sounds 
like  a  fish  story,  but  it  ain't. 

"There's  so  many  stumps  and  snags  and  such  a  lot 
of  brush  in  this  country  I  sometimes  think  God  Almighty 
never  intended  it  to  be  cleared  at  all.  In  starting 
the  work  the  first  thing  is  the  brush-cutting — slashing, 
we  call  it.  The  brush  is  left  piled  up  in  windrows,  and 
when  it's  dry  you  burn  it;  but  it  don't  burn  clean  and 
the  fire  leaves  a  lot  of  stub  ends  besides  all  the  charred 
logs  and  other  large  pieces,  so  you  are  in  a  nice  job. 
You  can  be  just  as  black  as  you  want  to  be  in  the 
picking  up." 

The  stumps  are  the  most  serious  part  of  the  problem. 
The  effort  to  obliterate  a  really  big  one  by  burning  and 
hacking  and  digging  may  continue  for  years.  To  put 
a  charge  of  powder  or  dynamite  underneath  is  the 
quickest  way.  That  breaks  it  up  and  loosens  it.  Then, 
by  hitching  horses  on  to  the  fragments,  the  great  root 
fangs  can  be  jerked  forth  from  the  ground,  but  there 
will  still  be  an  enormous  hole  to  fill.  The  entire 
expense  of  clearing  the  land  of  both  brush  and  stumps 
will  average  about  seventy-five  dollars  an  acre. 

I  asked  a  man  in  the  town  if  the  farmers  were  pros- 
perous. "Sure  thing!"  he  replied.  "They're  well  fixed, 
and  lots  of  'em  have  money  in  the  bank." 

But  those  black  spectral  stumps  lingered  in  my  mind, 
and  I  could  not  dispel  the  feeling  that  the  farmers  were 


2/8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

wrestling  with  the  wilderness,  and  that  their  prosperity 
was  of  the  future  rather  than  of  the  present.  Besides, 
their  buildings  were  small  and  often  poor,  and  I  said 
so  to  the  town  man. 

"Well,"  he  responded,  "in  the  East  when  a  man  has 
made  money,  the  first  thing  he  does  is  to  improve  his 
surroundings  so  he  can  take  some  pride  in  'em;  but 
here  they  don't  seem  to  care  much  about  that.  They're 
content  to  live  in  shacks,  and  there  ain't  much  to  their 
barns  except  a  roof  which  is  just  good  enough  to  turn 
water  off." 

One  day  I  was  caught  by  a  light  shower,  and  stopped 
at  a  wayside  home.  A  woman  and  some  ragged 
children  came  to  the  door  and  I  was  ushered  into  the 
best  room.  It  was  a  battered,  barren  apartment  with 
board  walls  and  ceiling.  The  most  notable  articles  of 
furniture  were  a  stove,  a  sewing  machine,  and  a  sofa 
with  an  old  quilt  on  it.  The  walls  were  adorned  with 
three  enlarged  portraits  staring  out  of  heavy,  dingy 
frames. 

The  woman  exhumed  some  photographs  for  my 
entertainment,  wiping  them  one  by  one  with  her  apron 
as  she  passed  them  to  me.  They  were  much  the  worse 
for  wear.  "This  one  is  of  a  logging  crew,"  she  ex- 
plained; "and  this  here  is  of  the  last  graduating  class 
from  the  high  school;    and  that  there  is  of  two  of  my 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  279 

nieces  in  Seattle.  I  been  washing  today,"  she  added 
with  a  sigh,  "and  I'm  completely  done  out." 

The  shower  was  soon  over.  In  a  near  field  the  man 
of  the  house  was  zigzagging  around  among  the  black 
stumps  with  a  pair  of  old  horses  ploughing.  He  did  not 
stop  for  the  rain.  When  I  started  on  I  went  through 
the  field  and  spoke  with  him.  He  seemed  to  be  in  no 
hurry  and  he  let  his  horses  stand  while  he  went  and 
sat  down  on  a  pile  of  rubbish  that  he  had  cleared  ofF 
the  land  and  thrown  in  a  great  windrow  to  serve  as  a 
fence.  Then  he  got  out  his  jackknife  and  began 
whittling. 

"I  landed  here  twenty  years  ago,"  said  he,  "and  I 
swore  I  wouldn't  stay  if  they  was  to  give  me  the  hull 
country,  but  now  I'm  content  with  a  very  little  of  it, 
and  there  never  was  better  land  anywhere  than  this 
right  here.  It  can't  be  discounted.  The  region  was 
at  first  all  covered  with  heavy  woods.  The  river  and 
the  cricks  was  the  thoroughfares,  and  there  was  swarms 
of  Indians  camped  up  and  down  'em.  Timber  wa'n't 
worth  what  it  is  at  present,  and  there's  been  more 
spoilt  here  than  a  little.  We'd  pick  out  the  finest  trees, 
cut  'em  down,  take  the  best  part  of  each  log  and  leave 
the  rest.     We  didn't  use  to  look  at  hemlock  at  all. 

"The  cutting-off  of  the  country  has  made  quite  a 
difference  in  the  weather.  We've  had  a  terrible  fine 
winter  and  spring  so  far  this  year.     But  we  used  to 


280     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

have  mist  day  after  day.  We  called  it  Oregon  mist — 
missed  Oregon  and  hit  here.  It  was  thick  enough  to 
cut  into  chunks;  yet  you  might  be  out  in  it  all  day  and 
hardly  get  wet  through.  My  gracious!  the  mist  was  so 
bad  in  July  and  August  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
cure  our  hay.  Late  years,  instead  of  mist  we  have 
rain,  and  then  it  comes  off  clear. 

"This  is  a  great  country  for  fish.  Heavens  and  earth! 
when  I  come  here  we  didn't  think  much  of  salmon — they 
was  too  common.  We  appreciate  them  now.  At 
this  season  they  are  a  little  scarce  and  you  have  to 
pay  as  much  for  'em  in  our  town  as  in  any  old  place; 
but,  later,  in  the  salmon  run  you  can  buy  a  ten  or 
twelve  pounder  for  fifteen  cents. 

"There's  one  thing  I'm  glad  of — they  say  we  ain't 
in  the  earthquake  zone,  and  yet  I'm  not  sure  about 
that.  Back  here  in  the  woods  is  a  bluff  that's  full  of 
petrified  clams  and  other  things  which  was  once  in 
the  sea.  How  did  that  blufF  get  where  it  is  unless  it 
was  hove  there  sometime  ?  Earthquake  zone  be 
darned!  You  can't  tell  me  we  ain't  in  it  when  I've 
seen  them  petrified  clams  in  that  high  blufF. 

"I've  got  some  first-class  land,  but  I  could  show  you 
other  land  in  this  region  that's  as  poor  as  this  is  good. 
I've  had  a  chance  to  sample  some  of  it  myself.  Once  I 
bought  thirty-five  acres  on  the  upland,  and  I  had  a 
blamed  nice  little  farmhouse  there  and  as  fine  a  well 


".•"  -■-"•  .■•'  "•-..-.'         " 


Burn  inn  brush 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  281 

of  water  as  ever  was  outdoors.  In  the  spring  I  started 
my  crops,  and  everything  looked  as  green  and  nice  as 
it  does  here,  but  there  was  hardpan  close  below  the 
surface,  and  in  June  my  crops  just  pinched  right  off  and 
died.  The  next  winter  a  man  come  along  and  looked 
at  the  place  thinkin'  of  buyin'.  We  agreed  on  the 
price,  and  I  was  all  in  a  tremble  till  I  got  the  money  for 
fear  he'd  back  out.  He  gave  me  eight  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  and  I  bought  down  here.  I  can  raise  more 
on  one  acre  of  this  land  than  he  can  on  his  hull  place. 

"A  good  deal  of  the  high  ground  is  all  right,  and  to 
hear  the  land  agents  talk  you  might  think  it  was  as 
good  as  this  in  the  valley.  You  don't  get  a  fair  idea 
from  them.  It  takes  this  bottom  land  nearly  all  the 
time  to  do  what  they  say  land  up  there  will  do.  Mv 
farm  here  gets  along  pretty  well  without  fertilizer  year 
after  year,  by  rotating.  On  high  ground,  though, 
you're  obliged  to  enrich  the  soil  if  you  want  decent  crops. 

"Not  long  ago  a  party  of  homeseekers  come  to  our 
town  from  Minnesota,  and  they  was  met  at  the  station 
by  a  lot  of  land-sharks  who  showed  'em  around.  On 
the  borders  of  the  town  I  noticed  one  of  the  sharks 
pointing  out  a  farm  field  and  sayin'  to  a  visitor,  'Why, 
man  alive!  if  you  was  to  pay  five  hundred  dollars  an 
acre  for  that  you'd  double  your  money  in  two  years.' 

"  'What'd  I  raise?'  says  the  homeseeker. 


282     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"'You  could  do  it  with  potatoes,'  says  the  shark. 
'Our  land'll  produce  twenty  tons  to  the  acre.' 

"Well,  it  wa'n't  my  business  to  chip  in,  but  I  couldn't 
help  remarkin',  'Say,  I  can't  hit  that.  If  you've  got 
any  such  land  to  sell  I'd  like  to  buy  it.' 

"Hops  have  been  a  great  crop  here,  but  raisin'  'em 
is  just  like  gambling.  The  price  goes  up  and  down  so 
uncertain  that  perhaps  they'll  make  you  rich,  and 
perhaps  they'll  make  you  poor.  There's  one  valley  I 
know  of  went  into  hops,  and  all  but  two  men  in  that 
valley  have  lost  their  ranches.  It  was  the  same  way 
with  tobacco  when  I  lived  back  in  Wisconsin.  At  first 
we  made  big  money  and  thought  we'd  discovered  a 
gold  mine.  Everybody  went  into  it  heavy,  and  pretty 
soon  the  price  dropped  way  down  out  of  sight.  It  was 
a  pity,  by  gracious!  You  had  the  tobacco  on  your 
hands,  and  you  couldn't  eat  the  stufF.  All  you  could  do 
was  to  chew  it  and  spit  it  out,  or  smoke  it;  and  my  old 
dad  was  put  right  to  the  wall. 

"But  then  there's  things  right  here  that  don't  turn 
out  any  better.  Two  years  ago  I  tried  the  poultry 
racket.  I  thought  I'd  go  into  the  business  in  a  large 
way  and  make  some  money.  So  I  bought  an  incubator 
and  paid  seventy-two  dollars  for  it  and  set  four  hundred 
eggs.  I  got  twenty-five  chickens.  Then  I  tried  another 
four  hundred  eggs  and  got  thirty  chickens.  That  was 
enough   for  me  and   I   put  the  incubator  away.     My 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  283 

hens  do  good  work  hatching,  but  in  a  few  days  after  a 
hen  brings  off  a  brood,  the  weasels,  skunks  and  rats  get 
busy  and  you  won't  find  a  confounded  thing  around 
the  place  only  dead  chickens. 

"  I  was  some  afraid  when  I  settled  here  that  the  river 
would  carry  off"  all  my  land.  The  banks  used  to  wash 
badly,  but  since  the  trees  have  been  cut  off  the  channel 
ain't  changed  so  much.  You  see  a  tall  tree  partly 
undermined  by  water  would  get  weaving  in  the  wind 
and  loosen  up  a  lot  of  soil  that  would  wash  away  in 
no  time  then.  You  notice  how  high  up  off  the  ground 
my  house  is  perched.  That's  on  account  of  floods. 
One  November  the  water  covered  the  second  doorstep, 
but  the  flood  is  a  great  help  to  us  fellers.  It  fertilizes 
the  land.  I  thought  it  would  ruin  my  potatoes  that 
November.  I  had  'em  all  in  a  pit  with  a  tent-shaped 
roof  over  'em  banked  up  with  turf.  When  the  flood 
was  at  its  highest  the  top  of  the  pit  stuck  out  of  the 
water  like  a  muskrat's  house.  I  spoke  to  the  neighbors, 
and  they  said,  'The  water'll  seep  right  ofF.  Leave 
your  potatoes  alone.  Don't  monkey  with  'em,  and 
they'll  be  all  right.'  Well,  it  didn't  hurt  'em  a  dog-gone 
bit,  and  I  never  lost  a  potato  except  some  in  the  ground 
that  wa'n't  dug.  Those  was  just  as  mushy  as  if  they'd 
been  frozen. 

"In  1896  we  had  what  we  called  the  big  he  freshet. 
That  there  surpassed  anything  the  old-timers  had  ever 


284     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

seen,  and  on  the  low  grounds  steamers  ran  all  around 
out  over  the  fences  and  rescued  the  people.  It  wra'n't 
very  nice  to  be  tangled  up  with  a  flood  like  that.  A  good 
many  buildings  was  carried  down  the  stream  and  it 
got  away  with  a  terrible  lot  of  stock.  I've  seen  a  pig 
floating  along  on  a  log  in  that  flood  just  as  calm  and  nice 
as  if  he'd  been  a  frog,  and  it  was  a  comical  sight.  There's 
a  queer  animal — Mr.  Piggy-  You  take  one  that's  in 
danger  of  drowning  into  a  canoe,  and  it'll  lay  just  as 
quiet  as  can  be.  But  as  soon  as  you  are  near  enough 
to  the  shore  so  it  thinks  it  can  spring  to  land,  then 
look  out  for  yourself.  They  say  a  pig  don't  know 
anything,  but  they  wouldn't  say  so  if  they'd  come  as 
near  getting  a  ducking  as  I  have  in  the  way  I  speak  of." 
Every  dweller  who  had  been  for  any  length  of  time 
in  the  region  had  a  similar  fund  of  picturesque  im- 
pressions and  experiences.  There  were  clouds  mingled 
with  the  sunshine;  yet  I  think  no  one  who  visits  the 
Puget  Sound  country  can  fail  to  believe  that  there  is 
before  it  a  great  future.  The  Sound  itself  makes  a 
waterway  marvelous  in  extent  and  navigable  for  the 
largest  ships.  The  climate  is  peculiarly  attractive.  It 
does  not  entirely  lack  vigor,  yet  the  cold  is  never 
extreme,  and  there  is  plentiful  moisture.  The  streams 
flow  throughout  the  year,  and  the  supply  of  water  for 
drinking  is  abundant  and  pure.  Many  great  towns 
are  growing  up  along  the  shore  and  they  have  back  of 


On  the  Shores  of  Puget  Sound  285 

them  much  land  of  wonderful  fertility.  Already  a 
network  of  steam  and  electric  roads  have  been  built 
that  reminds  one  of  the  populous  sections  of  the  East. 
As  one  man  remarked,  "You  can  start  from  here  and 
go  anywhere  in  the  world — in  any  direction,  and  by 
land  or  water." 

Note. — The  Puget  Sound  country  appeals  to  the  traveller  with 
exceptional  force.  The  Sound  itself  is  a  magnificent  waterway  with 
its  shore  line  of  eighteen  hundred  miles;  and  the  larger  bordering 
towns  are  remarkably  vigorous  and  modern  and  promising,  while  the 
tributary  streams  and  fertile  soil  and  fine  forests  prophesy  a  future  of 
unusual  prosperity  and  the  maintenance  of  a  very  large  population. 
You  will  stop  at  Tacoma  and  Seattle,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  it 
would  be  well  also  to  have  a  look  at  some  of  the  smaller  places.  Then, 
too,  if  possible,  visit  the  primeval  woodland  and  see  what  is  probably 
the  noblest  forest  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 


XIV 


AT   THE    EDGE    OF    CANADA 

THE  village  where  I  stopped  was  smack  up 
against  the  Canadian  line.  It  had  been  recom- 
mended to  me  as  "quite  a  busy  little  burg," 
but  I  could  not  see  that  it  was  very  different  from 
other  small  sawmill  towns  I  had  observed  as  I 
looked  out  of  the  car  window  going  north.  There  was 
the  same  cluster  of  wooden  stores,  saloons,  churches, 
lodging  houses  and  hotels,  and  a  dribble  of  residences  for 
a  mile  round  about.  The  house  that  reached  a  full  mag- 
nificence of  two  stories  was  a  rarity.  Most  people  were 
content  with  one  story,  and  the  house  was  small  at  that. 
Newness  and  rawness  were  very  apparent,  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  the  makeshift  about  the  dwellings. 
All  the  home  premises  were  snuggly  fenced,  and  the  cows 
and  horses  were  turned  loose  to  browse  in  the  public 
ways  and  along  the  railroad  tracks  and  out  into  the 
surrounding  wilds  to  suit  themselves. 

A  large  sawmill  had  burned  the  year  before  and  had 
not  been  replaced.  Many  workers  had  therefore 
moved  away,  and  certain  saloons  and  lodging  houses 

286 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  287 

had  closed  their  doors  as  a  consequence.  These  build- 
ings now  were  little  short  of  ruinous,  with  shattered 
windows  and  other  marks  of  neglect  and  misuse  that 
gave  the  place  a  touch  of  melancholy  and  decay.  On 
my  first  day,  as  I  sat  in  the  hotel  office,  I  made  inquiry 
about  conditions,  and  one  man  turned  to  another  and 
said,  "Well,  Bill,  the  town's  havin'  a  little  bit  of  a  boom 
now,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Bill,  "it  booms  nights.  I've  heard 
it,  but  I  don't  see  much  difference  daytimes." 

"  Why  is  it  that  your  vacant  buildings  look  so  shaky  ?" 
I  asked.     "They  can't  be  old." 

"I  suppose,"  responded  Bill,  "it's  because  it  ain't 
the  habit  of  the  country  to  build  substantial.  Even  a 
nice  appearin'  building  is  apt  to  be  cheap  and  thin 
walled.     The  paint  is  about  all  there  is  to  it." 

By  the  office  stove  sat  a  couple  of  Germans.  They 
just  then  started  discussing  a  village  runaway,  and  the 
older  man  said,  "Dere  vas  two  horses  and  a  heavy 
wagon.  Von  bridle  earned  off  and  der  driver  he  got 
down  to  fix  it,  and  an  engine  tooted.  Dot  made  der 
horses  run  down  der  street,  and  der  wagon  pole  hit  a 
telegraph  post  and  broke.  Two  old  peoples  vas  stand- 
ing  on    der   sidewalk    dere." 

"Vas  dey  hurted  r"  asked  the  listener. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "dey  vas  old  peoples  and 
easy-going  and  dey  couldn't  get  out  of  der  vay  from 


288     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

nothings.  Der  voman  vas  hit  in  der  head.  Der  horse 
kind  o'  pawed  like  and  hit  her  mit  his  front  foot." 

"Vas  she  knocked  down?"  inquired  the  younger 
German. 

"Oh,  sure,"  was  the  reply,  "she  vas  knocked  down 
all  right." 

"Dat  vas  ven  der  horse  put  his  foot  on  her,  don't  it  ?" 
said  the  younger  of  the  two. 

"No,"  his  companion  answered,  "if  he  put  his  foot 
on  her  den  it  fix  her  for  goot.    She  ish  all  better  now." 

The  surrounding  region  was  a  wide  plain  varying  little 
in  level  for  miles,  but  it  had  a  fine  setting  of  rugged  hills 
and  lofty  wooded  ridges  in  the  distance,  and  when  the 
weather  was  clear  I  saw  peaks  that  were  white  with 
snow.  The  lowlands  were  pretty  thoroughly  cleared 
of  valuable  timber,  yet  I  was  assured  that  a  little  farther 
back  there  was  no  end  of  heavy  woodland,  and  that 
the  forest  had  as  yet  hardly  been  touched.  The  forest 
that  was  in  view  would  have  been  much  finer  had  it 
not  been  for  the  yearly  ravaging  of  the  fires. 

"We  had  one  big  fire  this  last  March,"  a  man 
explained  to  me.  "That's  an  unusual  time  for  a  fire. 
We  commonly  get  'em  in  summer,  but  this  winter  was 
very  dry.  A  feller  was  burning  up  some  brush  and  the 
fire  got  away.  There  was  a  gale  blowing,  and  it  carried 
the  flames  through  the  tree  tops.  The  wind  would 
catch  burning  moss  and  pieces  of  old  dead  bark  from 


Getting  ready  to  plant  pot, 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  289 

the  tall  trees  and  take  them  a  long  distance  and  keep 
the  fire  spreading.  I  and  two  other  fellers  and  a  horse 
got  cut  off  by  the  fire  from  the  logging  camp  where  we 
was  workin'  and  we  had  to  go  roundabout  in  a  hurry 
or  get  burned.  The  horse  was  no  help  and  we  con- 
cluded to  leave  it,  but  the  horse  follered  us.  It  pushed 
along  through  the  brush  close  behind  and  when  we 
climbed  over  a  log  it  would  rear  up  and  jump  and  we 
all  reached  camp  safe. 

"Down  at  the  next  village  they  wet  gunny  sacks 
and  put  'em  on  the  roofs  to  prevent  the  houses  from 
bein'  set  on  fire  by  the  flyin'  sparks.  One  man  lost  his 
house  and  barn  and  all  his  cows  and  was  pretty  near 
burned  himself.  Oh,  gosh,  yes,  it  was  raging!  At 
night,  looking  from  here  toward  the  mountains,  you 
could  see  the  big  blaze  away  up  in  the  air.  Yet  it  done 
a  whole  lot  of  good  in  places,  clearing  the  land,  and 
there  was  plenty  of  people  who  was  glad  to  see  the  fire 
running  over  the  woods  because  it  would  make  fine 
pasture." 

During  my  stay  I  rambled  about  the  region  pretty 
thoroughly,  though  the  walking  was  far  from  ideal. 
However,  in  the  opinion  of  the  natives  they  are  blessed 
with  excellent  roads.  I  thought  them  wretched.  Deep 
ruts  and  sudden  hollows  and  mud  holes  abounded,  and 
there  were  spots  where  broken  stone  had  been  dumped 
on.     This  stone   prevented  teams  from  sinking  down 


290     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

out  of  sight,  yet  shook  you  up  till  your  teeth  rattled  if 
you  were  in  a  vehicle.  Then,  too,  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  corduroy  so  that  the  traveller  on  wheels  got 
bumps  and  jarrings  of  every  variety. 

On  one  of  my  walks  I  overtook  two  school  children, 
a  boy  and  a  girl,  and  we  kept  on  in  company  for  a  mile 
or  more.  The  girl's  name  was  "Addie,"  the  boy's 
name,  "Fred,"  and  they  were  near  neighbors.  Each 
carried  a  dinner  pail,  for  they  lived  too  far  from  the 
village  to  allow  them  to  go  home  at  noon.  The  boy 
was  barefoot  and  his  legs  were  well  daubed  with  clay 
mud  as  the  result  of  wading  in  roadside  pools. 

"We've  got  two  tame  pigeons  in  our  barn,"  remarked 
the  boy.  "Mr.  Frye  give  'em  to  us.  Oh,  Addie,  did 
you  see  that  peach  tree  of  ourn  this  morning  ?" 

"Eh-uh,"  she  replied,  by  which  she  meant,  "No." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  stop  and  look  at  that  tree. 
She'll  have  peaches  on  this  year.  She's  just  full  of 
blossoms." 

"We've  got  a  big  red  cow,"  said  Addie,  turning  to 
me;  "and  that  cow'U  let  you  pet  her.  When  she's 
lying  down  you  can  get  on  her  back  and  have  a  ride. 
I  like  my  old  red  cow,  and  her  milk  is  nearly  all  butter. 
We  have  another  cow  named  Maud,  and  her  milk 
don't  have  any  cream  at  all.  Maud  won't  let  you  pet 
her  either,  and  if  you  do  she  will  run  and  beller." 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  291 

"I  picked  a  whole  bunch  of  shootin'  stars,  yester- 
day," said  Fred,  "and  I  brung  'em  home  and  put  'em 
in  water.  They  looked  pretty  and  I'd  have  tooken  'em 
to  school  only  I  forgot.  When  I  was  little  I  picked  a 
lot  of  skunk  cabbage  blossoms,  but  they  smelt  awful. 
They  stinked  and  I  threw  them  away.  I  don't  never 
pick  them  any  more." 

"Once  I  fell  in  the  crick  near  our  house,"  Addie 
affirmed,  "and  my  brother  pulled  me  out.  I  didn't 
get  whipped.     My  mother  only  scolded  me." 

While  the  children  were  telling  me  the  story  of  their 
lives  after  this  fashion  a  family  of  small  pigs  came 
scampering  along  the  road  toward  us  with  a  dog 
barking  at  their  heels.  My  companions  hastened  to 
share  in  the  excitement,  and  they  seemed  not  to  care 
much  whether  they  chased  the  pigs  or  the  dog.  But 
they  soon  rejoined  me,  and  the  boy  said,  "We  had  some 
little  pigs  in  a  pen  last  year,  and  I  got  in  there  and  was 
running  'em  and  one  bit  my  finger." 

"  I  don't  see  but  that  there  is  as  much  going  on  here 
as  where  I  live,"  I  observed. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  they  asked. 

"In  Massachusetts,"  I  replied.  "Do  you  know 
where  that  is  ?" 

"Eh-uh,"  Addie  responded,  "but  I  know  where 
Seattle  is  and  where  Portland  is." 


292     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

"And  I  know  where  Massachusetts  is,"  declared 
the  boy.     "It's  across  the  ocean." 

"What  ocean?"  I  inquired,  but  I  had  reached  the 
limit  of  his  information. 

The  children's  homes  were  out  among  the  blackened 
stumps  and  the  ragged  woodland  as  yet  uncleared  of 
brush.  The  dwellings  were  small,  paintless,  and  rude 
in  their  surroundings  and  all  their  appointments.  Yet 
the  everyday  work  and  play,  the  farm  animals,  and 
the  changing  seasons  held  plenty  of  charm  for  the 
children  and  they  were  content.  Their  elders  possibly 
saw  a  darker  and  duller  side.  However,  they  were 
spurred  on  by  their  hopes  for  the  future.  They  were 
constantly  winning  in  their  fight  with  the  wilderness, 
clearing  up  and  improving  the  land,  setting  out  fruit 
trees,  increasing  the  number  of  their  domestic  animals 
so  that  the  time  seemed  coming  when  they  would  be 
assured  of  a  good  and  valuable  farm  and  a  comfortable 
income.  As  for  present  discomforts,  I  doubt  if  these 
occasioned  any  special  chafing,  for  these  were  part 
and  parcel  of  the  prevailing  way  of  living  in  the  region. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  a  man  ploughing  new 
ground  and  see  how  irregularly  he  had  to  dodge  about 
to  avoid  stumps  and  snags,  and  how  constantly  the 
horses  were  jerked  to  a  standstill  by  some  obstruction 
the  plough  had  encountered.  "Yes,"  said  a  resident, 
a   former  dweller  in  Tennessee,  whom   I   accosted   at 


/  istttno  lit  the  gate 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  293 

this  task,  "thar's  a  right  smart  of  green  roots  in  hyar, 
and  a  heap  of  fern  roots,  too." 

His  small  boy  was  busy  pulling  out  such  roots  as  the 
plough  loosened  and  piling  them  up  to  burn,  and  in  a 
few  days  they  would  have  a  crop  of  oats  started. 

In  a  neighboring  field  a  man  with  the  help  ot  his 
wife  was  gathering  up  fragments  of  stumps  on  a  wooden 
sledge  and  making  great  bonfires  of  them.  "This  is 
spare  time  work,"  said  he.  "I've  got  some  good  cows 
and  a  cream  separator,  and  we're  makin'  butter  enough 
to  supply  us  with  the  money  to  pay  our  living  expenses. 
So  when  there's  no  hurry  about  the  other  things  we 
clear  up  the  land  and  we  are  makin'  what  will  one  of 
these  days  be  a  ranch  we  can  sell  for  a  high  price.  In 
the  rough  you  can  buy  this  land  cheap,  and  by  clearing 
it  gradually  at  odd  times  your  labor  don't  mean  any 
real  outlay." 

I  was  about  to  resume  my  walk,  but  the  man  said  his 
wife  was  just  starting  to  the  house  to  get  dinner  ready 
and  invited  me  to  stay  and  eat  with  them.  He  was 
insistent,  and  I  accepted  the  friendly  hospitality.  When 
we  left  the  field  he  drove  his  horse  to  the  barn — a  good- 
sized  spreading  structure,  yet  without  a  sawed  stick  in 
it.  The  entire  material  had  been  split  out  of  cedar — the 
beams  and  studding,  the  rafters  and  shingles  and  the 
boards.  Some  of  these  boards  were  eight  or  ten  feet 
long,  and  their  even  thickness  and  the  neatness  of  the 


294     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

whole  job  were  surprising.  The  barn  was  nearly  empty 
except  for  a  little  wild  hay  from  the  marshes  and  a 
few  bags  of  apples.  The  fruit  had  lain  there  on  the 
floor  all  winter,  and  it  was  still  sound  and  eatable, 
though  a  trifle  withered. 

"When  I  was  new  here,"  said  the  man,  "I  thought 
a  building  like  this  was  the  dog-gonest  thing  I'd  ever 
seen  in  my  life.  It  was  quite  a  cur'osity,  by  George! 
But  such  buildings  are  common  all  around,  and  there's 
a  good  many  split-out  houses,  too.  Say,  it's  astonishing, 
ain't  it,  the  lumber  and  boards  that  can  be  made  without 
a  saw  ever  touching  'em  ?  The  road  from  here  to  town, 
four  miles,  used  to  be  pretty  near  all  of  corduroy  split 
out  of  cedar.  They've  turnpiked  the  road  lately  and 
covered  most  of  the  cedar  out  of  sight,  but  there's  still 
left  a  corduroy  bridge  one  hundred  feet  long  over  a 
low  wet  place. 

"Cedar  is  useful  in  a  good  many  ways.  It  makes 
the  best  fence  rails  in  the  world — you  bet  your  life  it 
does.  It  just  naturally  won't  rot  out,  and  the  rails  are 
so  light  you  can  throw  them  all  around.  Give  me 
cedar  rather  than  finvood  fencing  every  time.  A 
firwood  rail  that's  let  lie  on  the  ground — he'll  go — won't 
last  over  night  hardly.  Do  you-all  use  any  of  our 
Washington  cedar  shingles  in  the  East  ?  If  you  get 
our  number  ones  you  won't  do  any  kicking." 


A  corduroy  bridge 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  295 

The  farmer's  dwelling  was  a  little  brown  house  in  a 
large  yard  that  was  nearly  filled  with  apple  trees  just 
coming  into  bloom.  At  the  back  door  was  a  pump, 
but  we  washed  for  dinner  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen 
where  there  was  an  oilcloth  covered  stand  with  an 
earthen  jar  of  water  on  it  and  a  tin  cup  to  serve  for  a 
dipper.  The  children  came  from  school,  the  baby 
woke  up  and  we  all  sat  down  to  eat.  The  repast  was 
plentiful  and  good,  with  pork  and  potatoes  as  the 
mainstays.  After  we  finished,  the  man  and  I  sat  talking 
while  the  wife  cleared  the  table.  Their  oldest  son  was 
a  school  teacher.  "  He's  been  in  four  different  places," 
said  the  man,  "and  every  time  he's  had  a  regular  tough 
school  to  handle.  Children  go  to  school  all  the  way 
from  seven  to  twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  there's  often 
some  pretty  wild  kids  among  'em.  Sometimes  they 
whip  the  teacher,  and  sometimes  they  lock  him  outside. 
Yes,  they'll  plague  a  teacher  to  death,  and  the  school 
gets  played  out.  At  my  son's  school,  though,  there's 
very  little  trouble.  He  has  a  knack  at  managing.  This 
winter  I  believe  one  big  boy  undertook  to  whip  him, 
but  my  son,  in  spite  of  being  small,  is  active,  and  he  just 
collared  the  lad  and  flopped  him  on  the  floor  flat  on  his 
back.     Since  then  things  have  been  all  right. 

"Last  year  we  had  trouble  in  this  little  school  in  our 
own  deestrict.  The  children  got  to  having  a  big  time 
and  had   like  to   have   tore   the  schoolhouse  to  pieces. 


296     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

They  done  just  as  they  pleased,  and  the  teacher,  she'd 
sit  down  and  cry.  She  was  a  nice  girl,  but  she  was  just 
that  tender-hearted  she  couldn't  use  any  force  to 
compel  a  kid  to  behave  himself.  She  was  easy  in  a  good 
many  ways.  The  ringing  of  the  first  bell  she  was 
supposed  to  do  at  half  past  eight,  but  she'd  ring  it 
according  to  the  time  she  happened  to  get  through 
breakfast  at  the  place  wThere  she  boarded — maybe  one 
morning  at  eight  and  perhaps  next  day  at  nine.  We 
have  three  school  directors  in  each  deestrict,  but  one 
of 'em  was  away,  and  the  other  two  couldn't  agree  what 
to  do.  You  see  one  of  these  two  was  an  old  bach',  and 
I  think  he  had  a  notion  to  try  to  marry  the  girl.  So  he 
wouldn't  hear  of  her  bein'  turned  off".  But  finally  she 
resigned. 

"Of  course  the  boys  were  a  good  deal  to  blame. 
They  done  a  little  too  much,  but  they  wa'n't  really  bad, 
because  this  new  teacher  who's  come  in  has  no  trouble 
at  all.  We  have  a  nine  months'  school  beginning  about 
the  first  of  September,  and  it  keeps  continuous  except 
for  a  week  at  Christmas  and  another  week  at  Easter. 
We  pay  fifty  dollars  a  month.  Usually  the  teacher 
takes  care  of  the  schoolhouse,  but  once  in  a  while  we 
get  hold  of  one  who  won't  build  the  fires.  Then  we 
hire  a  janitor,  but  that's  a  thing  we  don't  do  unless 
we  have  to." 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  297 

"Do  the  people  in  this  neighborhood  go  to  church 
in  the  town  ?"  I  inquired. 

"They  ain't  great  hands  to  go  to  church  anywhere," 
he  replied;  "but  once  in  a  while  we  have  meetings  in 
the  schoolhouse.  There's  an  Advent  Church  in  the 
town,  and  whenever  the  preacher  gets  short  of  money 
he  comes  out  here  and  holds  services  for  a  few  Sunday 
afternoons.  On  the  Saturday  before  he  starts  in  he'll 
drive  around  from  house  to  house  to  announce  that 
there'll  be  a  meetin'.  He's  about  two-thirds  or  three- 
fourths  crazy  in  my  opinion.  He  ain't  married,  and 
you  can  take  any  man,  I  don't  care  who  he  is,  and  let 
him  live  for  years  all  by  himself  out  in  this  wilderness, 
and  he  will  get  a  little  off.  Under  them  circumstances 
a  man  is  sure  to  have  very  peculiar  streaks  and  imagine 
things  ought  to  go  a  certain  way.  Yes,  and  a  man 
bachin'  here  in  the  woods  is  pretty  likely  not  to  be  able 
to  get  along  a  minute  with  his  neighbors.  Well,  speak- 
in'  about  our  meetin's,  at  the  end  of 'em  there's  a  canvas 
made  of  the  homes  and  we  fix  the  preacher  up  with 
both  money  and  food  supplies. 

"That  reminds  me  the  pigs  are  squealing  lor  their 
dinner,  and  I  must  go  and  feed  them." 

The  rancher  went  ofF  toward  the  pigpen  and  I  betook 
myself  to  the  highway.  Along  either  side  of  the  road 
was  an  unending  series  of  shallow,  slimy  pools  alive 
with  wriggling  tadpoles,  and  these  pools  or  the  warm 


298     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

neighboring  banks  were  a  resort  of  numerous  "  streaked" 
snakes,  as  they  are  called  in  Oregon,  but  which  we  in 
the  East  speak  of  as  "striped."  The  snakes  slipped 
away  at  my  approach  into  the  weeds  and  brush,  darting 
out  their  forked  tongues  warningly. 

As  I  walked  on  I  observed  occasional  log  houses, 
survivals  of  the  rude  days  of  the  first  settlers.  They 
were  low  and  small  and  looked  like  poor  quarters,  but 
there  was  one  that  seemed  to  me  quite  delightful.  The 
roof  made  a  wide  projection  at  one  end  over  the  gable 
and  door  below,  and  relieved  the  architectural  bareness. 
Vines  had  been  trained  to  grow  up  to  the  eaves,  and  a 
patch  of  berry  bushes  close  by  made  the  cabin  nestle 
in  its  surroundings  very  prettily.  A  path  led  away  to 
a  smokehouse  a  stone's  throw  from  the  dwelling,  and 
this  smokehouse  was  made  of  a  large  hollow  log  set 
on  end  with  a  roof  put  on  the  top  and  a  door  at  the  side. 
A  steep  wooded  cliff  rose  a  few  rods  distant  and  made 
the  scene  both  wild  and  picturesque. 

The  woman  of  the  house  said  the  family  had  come 
from  Chicago.  "We  didn't  think  to  live  in  a  place  like 
this,"  she  explained,  "and  when  the  children  would 
look  from  the  car  windows  as  we  were  coming  and  see 
little  log  cabins  of  this  sort  they  would  cry  out,  "What's 
that — a  chicken  coop  ?" 

While  we  were  talking,  a  little  girl  appeared  from 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.     She  had  been  after 


At  the  Edge  of  Canada  299 

some  strayed  calves  and  now  had  got  them  together  in 
an  adjoining  lane.  "I  saw  a  Chinee  rooster  in  the 
woods,"  said  she. 

By  that  I  understood  she  had  seen  a  male  Chinese 
pheasant.  These  birds  have  been  introduced  com- 
paratively recently,  but  are  becoming  numerous  and 
are  a  valuable  addition  to  the  wild  game.  I  often 
heard  their  sharp  double  squawk  in  my  rambles.  The 
little  girl  affirmed  that  they  were,  "awful  nice  eatin'." 

I  was  late  in  returning  to  the  town.  The  sun  had  set 
and  the  frogs  were  croaking  in  lively  chorus  in  the 
village  puddles.  Some  of  the  young  men  were  out  in 
the  grass  of  the  broad  main  street  pitching  horseshoe 
quoits.  I  could  hear  the  call  of  children  at  play  on 
the  byways;  there  was  a  soft  tinkle  of  cow  bells  and 
the  clack  of  footsteps  on  the  wooden  walks.  Low  in 
the  west  hung  the  slender  golden  scimiter  of  the  new 
moon,  and  in  the  east,  above  the  dark  nearer  ranges, 
rose  a  lonely  mountain  peak,  pure  and  white  and 
beautiful  against  the  dusky  sky. 

Note. — Any  hamlet  like  this,  recently  carved  out  of  the  wilderness, 
has  a  peculiar  fascination,  and  such  are  numerous  in  the  far  North- 
west. The  traveller  with  a  liking  for  what  is  simple  and  rustic  cannot 
do  hetter  than  to  pick  out  one  at  random  and  stay  at  least  a  day  or 
two.  Life  there  is  more  comprehensible  than  in  a  big  town;  individu- 
ality is  more  marked  in  its  dwellers,  and  you  come  in  contact  with 
real  life  in  a  way  that  entertains  and  instructs. 


XV 


THE    NIAGARA   OF   THE   WEST 

THE  Shoshone  Falls  on  the  Snake  River  in 
Southern  Idaho  ranks  among  the  most  in- 
posing  falls  in  the  world;  yet  it  has  received 
from  the  tourists  thus  far  scant  attention.  Very  little 
exact  information  as  to  its  character  is  to  be  had,  and  I 
found  the  railway  people,  both  in  the  offices  and  on  the 
trains  woefully  lacking  in  knowledge  of  how  to  get  to 
the  great  waterfall.  Thus  it  was  that  I  stopped  off 
from  the  train  one  night  at  Shoshone,  supposing  I  was 
to  go  from  there  a  twenty-five  mile  journey  by  stage  to 
the  Falls  the  next  day;  but  I  found  the  stage  had  long 
been  discontinued  and  that  I  must  travel  a  roundabout 
route  by  rail,  a  distance  of  one  hundred  miles. 

I  had  plenty  of  time  to  look  around  the  village  the 
following  morning  before  an  available  train  came. 
It  was  a  place  of  a  thousand  inhabitants,  and  in  addition 
to  the  homes  and  group  of  stores  there  was  a  courthouse, 
school  building,  several  small  churches  and  a  newspaper 
office.  A  western  town  has  to  be  very  diminutive 
indeed  not  to  have  a  newspaper,  and  where  one  can 

300 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  301 

exist,  a  rival  usually  gains  a  foothold.  Then  there  is 
a  fight — an  endless  war  of  words.  Even  in  the  largest 
of  the  coast  cities  the  papers  have  a  curious  boyish 
habit  of  pitching  into  each  other,  and  they  give  their 
rivals  their  due  with  no  light  hand.  You  are  surprised, 
on  reading  what  is  said  of  a  competing  paper,  that  it 
can  continue  to  exist  when  it  shows  such  incompetence, 
idiocy  and  general  cussedness,  and  you  are  informed 
that  its  office  boy  is  superior  in  sense  and  ability  to 
the  editor-in-chief. 

The  settlement  was  huddled  very  snuggly  together 
as  if  in  dread  of  the  open  loneliness  of  the  surrounding 
prairie,  but  really,  I  suppose,  to  take  advantage  of  the 
town  water  system.  A  creek  flows  through  the  village 
and  makes  it  possible  to  irrigate  and  have  green  lawns 
and  flourishing  gardens. 

Round  about  was  the  prairie  clad  with  gray  sagebrush 
that  seemed  to  extend  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Inter- 
mingled with  the  sage  were  scattered  tufts  of  bunch 
grass  and  low  weeds  and  blossoms,  but  these  growths 
fell  far  short  of  covering  the  nakedness  of  the  ground, 
and  the  region  looked  the  more  somber  because  it  had 
been  overflowed  with  lava  in  the  remote  past,  and 
rough  fragments  and  shattered  ledges  were  everywhere. 
It  appeared  as  if  it  never  had  been  and  never  could  be 
of  any  use  to  mankind;  yet  I  saw  a  few  village  cows 
nibbling  on  the  barrens.     Evidently  they  contrived  to 


302     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

pick  up  a  living,  and  I  was  told  that  many  large  herds 
of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep  grazed  over  the  plains, 
and  that  in  places  along  the  stream  were  expanses  of 
soil  where  flourishing  fruit  ranches  had  been  estab- 
lished. The  ranchers  came  from  long  distances  to 
trade  at  the  town,  and  they  and  the  county  business 
made  the  settlement. 

The  town  was  engirdled  with  rubbish,  and  it  was  clear 
that  whoever  wanted  to  dispose  of  old  tin  cans,  worn- 
out  household  utensils  and  garbage  simply  conveyed 
the  waste  material  to  the  outskirts  and  dumped  it. 
In  this  forlorn  outlying  section  was  the  cemetery.  It 
was  right  on  the  open  prairie  and  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  forgotten.  Two  or  three  graves  were  marked  by 
marble  slabs,  but  the  rest  were  either  unmarked  or 
had  wooden  head  pieces  on  which  the  lettering  was 
fast  being  effaced  by  the  weather.  A  few  of  the  graves 
were  inclosed  by  broken  fences  of  palings  or  wire,  and 
some  had  lava  blocks  heaped  up  around  them.  While 
I  was  poking  about  here  I  disturbed  a  Jack  rabbit. 
As  soon  as  he  saw  me  he  laid  back  his  long  ears  and 
was  off"  through  the  sagebrush  like  a  streak. 

My  train  came  presently  and  I  went  on  to  Minidoka 
and  then  took  a  branch  road  to  Twin  Falls  City.  This 
branch  road  had  been  called  into  existence  within  a 
year  by  the  irrigating  of  the  tract  of  country  through 
which  it  ran.     Naturally,  the  region  was  a  sagebrush 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  303 

plain  rising  and  falling  in  long  swells  and  broken  here 
and  there  with  ragged  gullies.  But  an  irrigation 
company  was  now  ready  to  furnish  water  for  three 
hundred  thousand  acres,  and  the  government  was 
preparing  to  supply  a  flow  for  half  as  much  more 
territory,  so  the  entire  fifty  miles  along  the  railroad  had 
suddenly  become  populous;  for  there  are  always  plenty 
of  people  adrift  in  these  newer  regions  who  are  on  the 
watch  for  chances  to  make  their  fortunes  quickly  and 
easily,  and  they  rush  into  any  district  that  is  opened  up. 
Some  become  permanent  residents.  Others  sell  out 
after  a  while  and  seek  still  newer  fields  of  opportunity- 
Many  settlers  are  from  the  middle  West  where  land 
has  become  expensive,  and  where  a  man  making  a 
fresh  start  has  usually  a  prolonged  struggle  to  own  a 
farm.  If  he  is  adventurous  or  unstable  he  turns  his 
eyes  to  the  undeveloped  lands  in  remote  regions  which 
are  to  be  had  cheap  and  which  he  can  make  valuable 
by  the  labor  of  his  own  hands. 

As  a  result  of  these  tendencies  I  saw  the  cabins  of 
the  homesteaders  dotting  the  landscape  far  out  into 
the  dreary-  desert  on  either  side  of  the  railroad.  "When 
I  first  come  here  a  year  ago,"  said  the  brakeman  on  the 
train,  "there  was  nothin'  doin'  at  all,  and  now  the  coun- 
try is  thickly  populated.  No  crops  will  go  in  this  year 
on  the  government  property,  because  the  canals  ain't 
finished.    The  people  living  on  the  land  have  no  chance 


304     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

for  any  income  from  their  claims.  All  they  can  do 
is  to  make  sure  of  'em.  You're  obliged  to  spend  part 
of  your  time  on  your  property  and  put  up  a  house  and 
make  some  improvements.  Usually  a  man's  house  is 
a  one-room  shack — just  a  little  board  shed  as  cheap 
as  it  can  be  made.  Even  then  it  costs  seventy-five  or 
one  hundred  dollars,  for  all  the  lumber  has  to  come 
in  by  railroad  and  it  is  expensive. 

"About  the  only  work  that  can  be  done  on  the  land 
is  to  grub  up  the  sagebrush  and  build  fences.  Some 
hack  at  the  sage  by  hand,  but  most  hire  a  machine 
which  claws  it  out  at  a  cost  of  three  dollars  an  acre. 
After  that  job  is  done  the  brush  has  to  be  piled  up  and 
burned. 

"There  ain't  many  who  can  afford  to  stay  con- 
tinuously on  their  places.  They've  got  to  go  and  rustle 
to  get  money  to  make  payments,  and  they  put  in  most 
of  their  time  workin'  on  the  railroad,  or  in  some  town, 
or  on  a  ranch.  If  a  man  has  a  family  he  leaves  them 
to  hold  down  the  claim.  I've  got  a  claim  myself,  and 
so  have  several  other  fellows  workin'  on  the  train. 

"This  country  is  said  to  assay  ninety  per  cent, 
sagebrush  and  sand,  and  ten  per  cent.  wind.  You're 
sure  to  have  plenty  of  wind  on  such  a  big  open  plain 
as  this,  but  the  soil  is  rich,  and  when  we  get  crops 
growing,  things  will  look  very  different.  Some  say  the 
hot  winds  blowing  from  the  desert  will  make  us  trouble, 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  305 

and  that  with  the  fine  sand  they  carry  along  they  will 
bruise  the  foliage  of  our  crops  and  spoil  everything. 
The  better  the  irrigation  is,  they  say,  the  more  tender 
the  crops  will  grow  and  the  worse  they'll  be  damaged; 
but  I'm  willing  to  risk  it. 

"When  I  was  a  boy  I  lived  in  New  York  City.  A 
fellow  is  only  an  atom  back  there.  If  you  lose  your 
place  somebody  else  is  all  ready  to  step  into  it  and  then 
you  feel  as  if  you  were  out  of  the  race  forever.  You're 
obliged  to  scrap  like  a  cuss  for  everything  you  get. 
There's  room  out  here,"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
expressively.  "  I'd  rather  be  a  big  frog  in  a  little  puddle 
than  a  little  frog  in  a  big  puddle.  This  is  better'n 
New  York  any  turn  in  the  road.  If  you  fall  down 
there's  plenty  of  chances  to  start  again,  and  the  life 
is  not  so  bound  by  custom.  Things  are  free  and  easy. 
It  suits  me,  and  you  won't  find  many  people  who  get 
used  to  the  ways  here  who  would  care  to  go  back. 
With  industry  and  health  and  a  square  jaw  there's  no 
reason  in  God's  world  why  a  man  shouldn't  get  along. 

"  But  of  course  not  everybody  sees  things  the  same 
as  I  do.  My  mother  come  out  here  and  stayed  a  year 
and  then  packed  up  bag  and  baggage  and  hiked  it 
back  to  New  York.  She  thought  this  country  was 
lonesome." 

Now  and  then  the  train  stopped  at  a  little  town 
consisting  of  a  cluster  of  shops,  saloons  and  homes,  all 


306     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

perfectly  new  and  distressingly  bare  of  vegetation. 
There  were  no  embowering  trees  and  vines  and  none 
of  the  repose  that  comes  with  age.  Twin  Falls  was  1 
like  the  other  villages,  but  larger  and  carefully  laid  out 
with  broad  streets,  and  it  even  had  its  public  park. 
Everywhere  in  and  around  the  town  were  the  irriga- 
tion channels,  some  wide,  some  narrow,  but  all  of  them 
filled  with  a  muddy  flow  of  water,  and  it  was  this  water 
which  was  to  make  the  dead  desert  a  land  of  plenty. 

The  town  had  started  in  the  sagebrush  and  within 
about  a  twelve-month  had  grown  from  nothing  to  a  place 
of  over  one  thousand  inhabitants.  The  man  who  had 
been  there  a  full  year  was  an  old  settler — a  pioneer. 
This  was  to  be  the  metropolis  of  the  irrigated  country, 
and  it  already  had  some  substantial  buildings,  and  the 
place  resounded  with  the  blows  of  hammers  and  the 
clink  of  trowels.  As  a  whole,  small  structures  were 
the  predominant  ones,  and  shanty  houses,  often  scarcely 
larger  than  a  good-sized  dry-goods  box,  were  common. 
Some  people  were  dwelling  in  tents,  or  in  the  upper 
portion  of  a  covered  wagon  that  had  been  lifted  off 
the  wheels  and  set  on  the  ground. 

There  was  much  coming  and  going  of  teams  on  the 
dusty  highways,  trade  was  lively  in  the  numerous 
stores,  and  some  business  seemed  to  be  doing  in  the 
two  diminutive  wooden  banks.  One  corner  in  the 
heart   of  the   town   was   being   utilized   at   the  time    I 


A  Jack  rabbit  in  sight 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  307 

arrived  as  a  horse  mart.  Of  the  creatures  exhibited 
I  observed  especially  a  pair  of  large  handsome  horses 
hitched  at  the  borders  of  the  board  walk.  They  were 
in  charge  of  a  peaked  little  man  in  shirt  sleeves  who 
hovered  about  proclaiming  their  merits,  and,  between 
whiles,  expectorating  tobacco  juice.  His  favorite  claim 
with  regard  to  his  team  was:  "There  ain't  no 
pimples  on  'em  anywhere.  They're  good  sound  horses, 
one  of  the  finest  driving  teams  in  this  country.  It  ain't 
often  you  get  two  such  as  these." 

"What  price  do  you  hold  'em  for  ?"  someone  asks. 

"Three  hundred  and  a  quarter,"  is  the  reply.  "Now 
ain't  they  the  prettiest  things  you  ever  laid  your  eyes 
on  ?  They're  a  well-bred  team  and  just  as  kind — why! 
I've  gone  out  to  the  barn  and  found  my  little  boys  on 
them  horses'  backs  and  wallowing  all  over  'em  and 
never  getting  harmed  a  mite." 

"It  would  cost  a  good  deal  to  take  care  of  'em," 
said  the  prospective  customer.  "  Feed  is  pretty  ex- 
pensive." 

"They  ain't  heavy  eaters,"  responded  the  trader. 
"You  give  'em  a  little  oats  and  hay  and  they'll  keep 
fat  all  the  time.  They  are  good  to  work,  or  for  driving 
either.  If  a  man  wants  to  go  to  town  he  can  just  hitch 
'em  up  and  they'll  take  him.  They're  a  fine  team  any- 
where. See  how  they're  built.  There  ain't  a  pimple 
on  'em." 


308     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

The  Shoshone  Falls  was  seven  miles  distant  and  I 
decided  to  walk  thither.  The  route  was  not  very  direct, 
for  I  had  to  follow  the  right-angled  roads  with  which 
the  country  had  been  laid  off.  An  uneasy  wind  blew, 
and  every  now  and  then  a  rotary  current  would  start 
and  catch  up  a  flurry  of  dust.  Sometimes  the  dust 
would  rise  in  a  vague  brown  column  hundreds  of  feet 
high,  and  I  frequently  had  several  of  these  wandering 
columns  in  sight  at  the  same  time.  Far  off  on  the 
horizon,  dim  with  silvery  haze,  were  ranges  of  moun- 
tains and  two  or  three  peaks  white  with  snow.  The 
heat  shimmered  over  the  plain,  and  the  glare  of  the 
sun  was  a  pain  to  the  eyes.  I  was  soon  very  thirsty 
and  the  dust  and  wind  parched  my  lips,  but  I  plodded 
on,  for  I  had  doubts  concerning  the  drinking  water  to 
be  supplied  by  the  houses  along  the  way. 

The  settlers  were  busy  taming  the  land  by  tearing 
out  and  burning  the  sagebrush,  and  by  ploughing, 
harrowing  and  scraping  their  holdings  into  a  smooth 
grade  for  irrigating.  Some  of  the  crops  were  in  the 
ground.  There  was  new  wheat  pricking  up  out  of  the 
soil,  and  there  was  alfalfa,  started  the  year  before, 
now  forming  a  dark  green  sod.  I  noticed  that  the 
houses  were  apt  to  have  a  heap  of  sagebrush  near  them 
awaiting  use  as  fuel.  "That's  the  only  thing  growing 
on  the  prairie  we  can  burn  except  greasewood,"  one 
farmer  said  to  me.     "The  greasewood  is  scarce,  and 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  309 

we'd  rather  have  the  sage  because  it  has  larger  butts. 
A  good  deal  of  coal  is  shipped  in,  and  we  depend  on 
that  mostly  in  cold  weather.  There  was  spells  though, 
last  winter,  when  enough  didn't  arrive  to  go  around, 
and  we  had  to  go  scratching  after  sage.  The  poor 
families  suffered  some  in  the  towns,  and  when  things 
were  very  bad  the  railroad  would  leave  a  car  of  engine 
coal  where  people  could  help  themselves  to  what  they 
needed.  A  car  that  was  out  over  night  wouldn't  have 
much  left  in  it  by  morning.  It  was  understood  with  the 
constable  that  he  wasn't  to  watch  very  close  and  was 
only  to  arrest  chronic  swipers  who  would  take  the  coal 
to  saloons  and  sell  it  for  booze." 

From  any  rising  bit  of  ground  on  my  walk  I  could 
see  to  the  north  a  dark  irregular  rift  in  the  sagebrush 
barren,  and  I  knew  there  flowed  the  Snake  River. 
The  rift  looked  ominous,  yet  by  no  means  of  imposing 
proportions,  and  I  concluded  that  any  falls  it  might 
contain  would  be  a  disappointment.  At  last  I  left  the 
farmlands  behind,  and  the  road  became  a  narrow  trail 
winding  along  through  a  strewing  of  lava  blocks.  Then 
I  came  to  the  verge  of  the  canyon,  which  seemed  to 
have  expanded  as  if  by  magic  to  a  width  of  a  half  mile, 
and  which  yawned  over  eight  hundred  feet  in  depth. 
Far  down  in  the  chasm  was  the  great  foaming  waterfall. 
I  had  come  from  the  hot,  silent,  monotonous  prairie 
wholly  unprepared  for  so  magnificent  a  sight  or  for  the 


310     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

thunder  of  waters  that  sounded  in  my  ears.  The 
gorge  itself  is  of  gloomy,  volcanic  rock  devoid  of  any 
beauty  in  color,  but  savagely  impressive  by  reason  of  its 
size,  and  also  because  its  columnar  and  grottoed  walls 
and  vast  terraces  are  suggestive  of  the  planning  and 
labor  of  some  titanic  architect  and  builder. 

I  wandered  for  a  considerable  distance  along  the 
verge  of  the  monstrous  gorge  and  gazed  down  on  the 
misty  fall  from  the  scarp  of  many  a  projecting  buttress, 
some  of  which  dropped  away  almost  perpendicularly 
to  the  dark  stream  at  the  bottom  of  the  canyon.  When 
I  at  length  took  advantage  of  a  ravine  to  descend  to 
lower  levels  I  found  the  setting  of  the  falls  became 
increasingly  attractive;  for  now  the  rock  walls  and 
black  crags  towered  far  above  and  made  a  most  inspir- 
ing spectacle.  The  river  itself  is  a  stream  that  at  the 
falls  flows  a  full  thousand  feet  wide.  Immediately 
above  the  leap  are  rapids  and  lesser  falls,  while  big 
boulders  and  various  islets  block  the  way  and  add  to 
the  wild  beauty.  The  vertical  final  drop  is  about  one 
hundred  and  eighty  feet,  and  as  you  watch  the  great 
white  tumult  of  waters  going  down  into  the  void  of 
foam  and  flying  spray  below,  you  cannot  help  thinking 
of  Niagara.  The  latter  is  not  so  high,  but  it  is  much 
broader  and  carries  far  more  water.  However,  the 
Shoshone  Falls  exhibits  about  as  much  width  and  power 
as   the    mind   can   comprehend,    and   its   environment 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  31 1 

appeals  to  one  far  more  than  does  the  commonplace 
level  from  which  the  greater  falls  makes  its  descent. 
The  on-looker  feels  satisfied  that  here  is  one  of  the 
noblest  sights  on  this  continent. 

Clinging  to  the  wild  cliffs  in  the  lower  portions  of  the 
gorge  grew  a  fringe  of  gray-trunked  gnarled  cedars. 
I  saw  a  pair  of  robins  flitting  among  them,  and  there 
were  swallows  winging  in  swift  flight  through  the  air, 
and  high  above  the  walls  of  the  gorge  the  buzzards 
soared.  During  the  previous  winter  the  ground  had 
been  pretty  continuously  covered  with  snow,  and  there 
had  been  much  suffering  among  the  cattle  on  the  range. 
Many  had  died  and  some  had  fallen  over  the  cliffs  of 
the  canyon.  So  the  buzzards  hovered  about  the  vicinity 
in  force,  for  food  was  plenty.  A  little  up  stream  from 
the  falls,  on  the  tip  of  an  island  crag  an  eagle  had  built 
its  nest,  though  the  casual  observer  would  not  have 
thought  the  rude  heap  of  sticks  was  anything  more 
than  the  broken  tangle  of  a  dead  cedar. 

Somewhat  farther  up  the  river  in  the  quiet  water 
beyond  the  rapids  was  a  clumsy  flat-bottomed  ferry- 
boat. As  I  watched  it  ply  back  and  forth  I  could  not 
help  wondering  what  would  happen  if  the  wire  broke. 
A  year  or  two  ago  the  present  ferryman's  prede- 
cessor, after  imbibing  too  freely  of  whiskey,  went 
over  the  falls  in  his  rowboat,  and  his  body  was 
found    in    the    river    below,  several    days  later.       One 


312     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

foolhardy  adventurer  leaped  from  the  crest  of  the 
falls.  He  was  an  Indian  half-breed,  and  when  a 
comrade  dared  him  to  make  the  jump,  down  he  went. 
However,  he  escaped  with  only  a  few  bruises,  and  was 
at  once  famous.  Some  showman  arranged  with  him 
to  repeat  the  exploit;  but  while  making  a  tour  with 
his  protege  in  preparation  for  the  event  the  half-breed 
robbed  his  manager  and  was  lodged  in  jail. 

On  a  plateau,  close  by  the  falls,  stands  a  rusty  old 
hotel.  There  I  lodged,  and  from  its  piazza  at  eventide 
I  looked  out  on  the  mists  rosy  with  the  sunset  light 
hovering  over  the  mighty  torrent  and  pulsating  fiercely 
in  the  wind,  swaying  and  weaving,  now  filling  the 
canyon,  and  again  all  but  disappearing.  The  volume 
of  water  in  the  river  would  be  very  much  greater  in 
June,  the  time  of  flood,  and  the  spray  would  then  fly- 
over the  hotel  like  rain.  On  its  exposed  sides  the  house 
was  coated  with  a  grayish  deposit  left  behind  by  the 
mists.  This  gathered  on  the  windows  in  a  thick 
film  that  can  only  be  removed  by  the  use  of  an  acid. 
The  hotel  people  did  not  trouble  to  clear  the  upper 
sashes,  for  that  portion  of  the  windows  was  supposed  to 
be  hidden  by  the  curtains,  so  I  could  see  the  results 
of  the  spray  very  easily. 

The  ground  quivered  with  the  pounding  of  the 
water,  and  the  hotel  was  in  a  tremble  and  the  furniture 
shaking  all  night.     In  the  morning  the  broad  arch  of  a 


to 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  313 

rainbow  was  painted  on  the  mists.  I  was  out  early 
and  crawled  down  a  narrow  gulch  among  the  crannied 
rocks  to  the  foot  of  the  falls.  This  was  a  tooth  and 
nail  task,  but  the  view  of  the  roaring  cataract  from 
below  was  well  worth  the  labor.  The  river  here  was 
in  violent  commotion,  and  the  waves  dashed  on  the 
rocky  shore  like  the  breakers  of  an  angry  sea.  The 
scene  no  doubt  is  far  wilder  in  time  of  flood,  yet  the 
falls  must  lose  in  beauty  by  reason  of  the  vast  volumes 
of  obscuring  mist.  The  cataract  is  at  its  worst  in  the 
late  summer  and  early  autumn,  for  then  the  stream  is 
so  low  that  a  large  portion  of  the  precipice  over  which 
it  flows  is  perfectly  bare. 

When  I  left  the  canyon  I  found  a  family  of  travellers 
camped  in  a  hollow  among  the  rocks  a  little  before  my 
road  reached  the  level  of  the  prairie.  They  had  a 
covered  wagon  and  a  tent.  The  mother  was  inside 
cooking  over  the  little  stove  that  thrust  its  pipe  out  of 
the  canvas  roof.  The  father  armed  with  a  gun  and 
accompanied  by  a  small  daughter  was  just  returning 
from  a  walk  through  the  sagebrush.  "I  never  bagged 
a  thing,"  he  said.  "1  didn't  even  get  a  chance  at  a 
Jack  rabbit.  This  country  used  to  be  full  of  'em. 
They  were  thicker'n  the  hairs  on  your  head,  by  golly! 
Once  I  stopped  up  here  at  Minidoka  and  went  out  after 
supper  with  a  friend  for  an  hour  and  a  halt  and  got 
twenty-five.    We  fed  'em  to  the  dogs,  but  Jack  rabbits 


314     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

in  the  season  make  a  nice  stew.  They  do  more  damage 
than  a  little.  They're  awful  on  alfalfa,  and  they'll  eat 
all  your  garden  stuff  if  you  don't  fence  against  them. 
They're  a  great  pest,  too,  among  the  trees  that  are  set 
out,  because  they  skin  the  bark  off  and  the  trees  die. 

"This  morning,  a  little  before  sunrise,  a  coyote  paid 
us  a  visit.  It  sat  up  here  on  the  rocks  howling  and  our 
dog  was  barking  back.  I  opened  the  window  and  poked 
out  my  gun  and  blazed  away  at  him,  but  he   escaped." 

There  were  two  other  girls  in  the  family.  They  were 
gathering  flowers.  Blossoms  were  plenty,  and  the 
ground  was  fairly  dappled  with  their  delicate  bloom, 
though  they  seemed  out  of  place  on  that  gray,  stony 
waste.  Among  the  children's  gatherings  were  sweet 
Williams,  pansies,  yellow  violets,  sunflowers  that,  except 
in  color,  resembled  oxeye  daisies,  a  little  white  flower 
they  called  stars,  a  kind  of  vetch  they  spoke  of  as 
ladies'  slippers,  and  some  sprigs  of  larkspur. 

"Don't  leave  that  larkspur  around  where  the  horses 
can  get  it,"  said  their  father.  "It's  poison.  Larkspur 
kills  lots  o'  cattle  in  this  country." 

The  man  adjusted  a  folding  chair  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wagon  and  invited  me  to  sit  down.  He  said  he  and 
his  family  were  all  musicians,  and  they  went  from  town 
to  town  giving  entertainments  and  playing  at  dances. 
The  star  performer  was  the  smallest  girl,  eight  years 
old.     She  could  play  the  piano  and  various  other  instru- 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  315 

ments,  but  excelled  on  the  violin,  and  he  had  her  give 
me  a  sample  of  her  art.  She  got  out  her  violin,  adjusted 
it  under  her  chin  and  began  playing,  while  he  sat  on 
the  wagon  brake  and  thrummed  an  accompaniment  on 
his  guitar.  The  music  was  very  pleasing,  for  the  child 
played  sweetly  and  simply  and  with  remarkable  ease. 
When  she  finished,  the  middle-sized  girl  was  sent  to  a 
brook  for  water,  and  the  eldest  with  a  halter  in  her  hand 
went  off  to  look  for  their  horses,  which,  though  hobbled, 
had  strayed  beyond  sight,  and  I  bade  this  hardy  and 
happy  family  of  "Versatile  Musicians,"  as  they  called 
themselves,  farewell. 

In  the  course  of  time  I  reached  the  town  and  there 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  another  wagon  family. 
They  were  settlers  just  arrived  and  had  stopped  on  the 
outskirts.  The  man  had  gone  to  a  store  to  buy  some 
supplies.  A  small  boy  and  girl  had  unhitched  the 
horses  and  were  feeding  them  and  a  colt  a  little  hay 
from  the  back  end  of  the  wagon.  The  woman  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms  sat  on  the  seat.  She  said  they  had 
been  on  the  road  for  two  weeks.  They  slept  in  the 
wagon  nights.  The  two  older  children  walked  a  good 
deal,  and  in  places  the  road  was  so  bad  and  the  jolting 
so  severe  that  the  mother  also  walked.  "In  the  moun- 
tains there  was  snow,"  said  she,  "and  sometimes  the 
horses  would  fall  down.  A  good  many  horses  would 
kick  when  things  was  like  that,  but  these  just  got  up 


316     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

and  pulled  again.  We  couldn't  always  find  water. 
Once  we  had  to  travel  thirty  miles  without  anything 
for  the  horses  to  drink  and  they  could  hardly  stand. 
I  carried  a  little  for  ourselves  in  bottles.  This  country 
is  not  so  nice  as  back  East,  but  wages  are  so  poor  there 
you  don't  feel  like  stayin'." 

Canvas-topped  wagons  were  plentiful  all  through 
this  newly-opened  region.  Some  of  the  wagon  people 
were  chronic  travellers  and  were  not  content  to  stay 
anywhere  very  long.  Such  were  referred  to  as  "  floaters  " 
or  "boomers,"  but  the  majority  came  to  settle. 

My  last  evening  in  Idaho  was  spent  at  Minidoka 
where  I  had  to  wait  till  midnight  for  the  train  that  was 
to  carry  me  home  across  the  continent.  The  village 
inhabitants  numbered  possibly  two  or  three  hundred, 
and  there  were  eight  saloons  and  a  drugstore  in  the 
hamlet.  These  drinking-places  drew  their  chief  support 
from  the  workers  on  the  government  water  ditches,  and 
they  were  suggestively  named  "The  Irrigator,"  "The 
Oasis,"  etc.  Not  long  before,  the  village  had  been  the 
residence  of  no  less  than  twenty-five  professional 
gamblers,  but  the  sheriff  had  now  driven  them  out; 
"and  the  business  men  here  are  all  kicking  because 
he  done  it,"  said  my  informant.  "  Of  course  the  gamblers 
didn't  produce  anything,  and  yet  they  gathered  in  the 
money  of  the  ditch-diggers  and  spent  considerable  of  it 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  317 

right  here  in  town.  So  we  ain't  as  well  off  without  'em 
as  we  were  with  'em." 

The  saloons  were  brightly  lighted  and  had  plenty 
of  customers,  and  the  place  was  full  of  drunken  stag- 
gerers. As  the  night  wore  on,  the  station  became 
populous  with  the  sodden  drinkers.  One  of  the  few 
sober  persons  waiting  for  the  train  was  an  Illinois  man 
who  had  been  visiting  a  brother  up  in  the  Boise  Valley. 
"The  land  boomers  have  been  just  a  boosting  things 
there  as  they  have  everywhere  else  out  here,"  said  he, 
"but  they  got  a  setback  last  summer.  The  ranchers 
have  been  depending  on  irrigation,  and  the  water  failed, 
and  their  crops  were  burnt  out.  Most  men  have  held 
on  to  their  places,  but  they've  had  to  put  a  plaster  on, 
and  those  mortgages  won't  be  cleared  off  in  a  long  time. 

"I  been  lookin'  around  quite  a  little  out  here,  and 
wherever  I've  been,  these  'ere  real  estate  men  have 
tried  to  sell  me  a  ranch.  Oh,  my  soul,  yes!  But  I  told 
'em  there  was  too  much  wind  in  this  country.  One 
day  a  whirlwind  will  take  your  land  over  to  your 
neighbors,  and  the  next  day  bring  it  back.  I  like  to 
have  my  land  stay  put. 

"Another  thing  that  handicaps  the  ranchers  here  is 
the  smallness  of  the  local  markets.  You've  got  to  ship 
most  everything  great  distances.  The  wholesalers  and 
railroads  make  all  there  is  to  be  made.  Yes,  the  rail- 
roads do  sock  it  to  'em  for  freights.     My  brother  set 


3 1 8     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

out  a  lot  of  peach  and  prune  trees,  but  he  can't  afford 
to  ship  the  fruit.  It  seems  too  bad  to  see  those  peaches 
big  as  your  fist  goin'  to  waste,  and  in  his  three  acre 
prune  orchard  the  prunes  every  year  drop  and  lie  so 
thick  you  couldn't  put  your  finger  down  anywhere 
under  the  trees  without  touchin'  some.  If  a  neighbor 
wants  to  go  and  fill  a  sack  he's  welcome,  but  my  brother 
never  harvests  none. 

"Some  try  to  make  money  raisin'  hay.  If  there 
comes  a  hard  winter  the  price  is  way  up,  but  the  next 
winter  the  buyer  can  probably  get  it  for  whistling.  On 
the  average  you're  obliged  to  stack  it  two  or  three  years 
to  sell  it  at  a  profit. 

"  I  tell  you,  it  don't  seem  to  me  they  can  enjoy  livin' 
so  much  out  here  as  we  do  in  the  East.  You  take  this 
Western  country  and  any  sort  of  a  house  does  for  a 
home.  Three  hundred  dollars  or  less  will  put  up  a 
pretty  good  dwelling.  My  brother  has  been  livin'  in 
such  a  shack  for  twenty  years.  On  the  ground  floor 
are  two  little  bedrooms  and  a  kitchen  not  over  fifteen 
feet  square.  A  ladder  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  serves 
as  a  stairway  for  you  to  climb  up  to  a  sleeping-place 
under  the  roof.  He  raised  seven  children  there,  but 
now  they're  growed  up  and  moved  away.  The  house  is 
far  from  any  town,  and  during  the  eight  weeks  I  was 
stopping  with  'em  I  saw  just  two  teams  pass.     I  used 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  319 

to  go  out  and  hunt  Jack  rabbits.      That  was  the  only 
excitement   I   seen. 

"Near  where  I  was  stayin'  was  a  valley  that  had  so 
much  alkali  in  the  soil  hardly  anything  would  grow. 
We  went  across  it  one  day.  The  distance  was  only  five 
miles  but  the  weather  was  hot,  and  my  brother  drove 
like  the  old  Harry.  The  horses  kicked  up  the  dust, 
and  I  was  filled  full.  'I  golly!'  I  said,  'you're  goin'  to 
kill  me,  ain't  you  ?' 

"  But  he  said  the  quicker  out  of  it  the  better.  I  had 
the  awfulest  eyes  for  the  next  two  weeks  that  ever  was. 
They  were  bloodshot,  and  each  morning  when  I  got 
up  they  were  gummed  together,  and  the  inside  of  my 
nose  was  so  sore  I  didn't  git  any  comfort.  It  beats  all 
what  that  alkali  will  do  for  a  feller. 

"There's  one  advantage,  though,  they  have  over  the 
East — they  don't  have  potato  bugs.  The  common  run 
of  people  don't  know  them  at  all.  Now  and  then  a  sack 
of  the  bugs  is  shipped  out  here,  and  they  think  the 
creatures  are  beans.  A  potato  bug  is  about  the  stub- 
bornest  thing  I  ever  seen.  It  don't  try  to  escape,  even 
when  you  knock  it  off  in  a  can  and  put  it  in  the  fire. 
Any  other  bug  that's  got  wings  would  use  'em  and  fly 
away." 

The  Illinois  man  relapsed  into  silence,  and  slouched 
his  hat  over  his  eyes  as  if  he  was  going  to  try  to  doze. 
Most  of  the  other  occupants  of  the  room  sat  smoking 


320     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

and  spitting,  or  sleeping  in  dull  stupor.  I  went  out  and 
walked  back  and  forth  in  the  chill  night  air  on  the  long 
gravel  platform  in  front  of  the  station.  A  half  moon 
was  shining  high  in  the  hazy  sky.  The  village  was  now 
dark,  except  for  the  saloons.  One  other  person  was 
walking  as  I  was,  back  and  forth  with  crunching  foot- 
steps on  the  gravel.  We  passed  some  remark  presently 
and  walked  together,  and  my  new  comrade  became 
confidential. 

"I'm  pretty  well  loaded,"  he  said.  "It's  seldom  I 
take  so  much;  but  I  know  what  I'm  about.  I  always 
keep  my  senses.  To  see  me  now  you  wouldn't  suspect 
that  as  a  boy  back  East  I  was  well  brought  up.  My 
parents  were  good,  careful  people,  and  they  did  all  they 
could  to  give  me  an  education  and  start  me  right. 
I  suppose  they  were  a  little  too  strict,  for  when  I  found 
myself  free  I  was  like  a  colt  let  loose,  and  I  kicked  up 
my  heels.  They  died  just  as  I  came  of  age  and  left  me 
twelve  thousand  dollars.  I  was  my  own  master  then, 
and  a  mighty  poor  master  I  made. 

"  I  had  always  been  fond  of  books,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  nothing  could  be  so  pleasant  as  to  travel  and  see 
those  famous  places  of  which  I  had  read.  So  off  I 
started,  and  I  visited  England,  France,  Egypt,  Palestine 
and  other  countries.  I  didn't  spare  expense.  The  best 
was  none  too  good  for  me  in  my  touring.  After  cover- 
ing as   much   country   as   I   cared   to   I   spent   several 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  321 

months  in  Paris,  and  there  I  got  mixed  up  with  the 
fast  life,  and  my  money  melted  away. 

"  I  reached  home  finally  with  cash  enough  left  to  buy 
four  six-horse  teams  and  I  went  into  the  business  of 
trucking.  For  a  year  I  did  well,  and  then  within  a  few 
days  I  lost  more  than  half  my  horses  by  pink  eye.  After 
that  my  luck  went  from  bad  to  worse,  till  I  gave  up 
trying  to  make  a  place  for  myself  in  the  world.  I  spend 
all  I  get.  Perhaps  I  will  keep  straight  for  five  or  six 
months,  and  then  I'll  have  a  spree  that'll  leave  me 
dead  broke. 

"I've  done  only  one  good  thing  in  my  life.  I'll  tell 
you  about  it.  I  had  a  cousin  who  fell  in  love  with  a 
locomotive  engineer.  Her  parents  didn't  like  that. 
They  thought  from  his  occupation  he  was  kind  of  low 
and  of  loose  morals;  and  besides  his  work  kept  him 
dirty  and  away  from  home  much  of  the  time.  They 
wouldn't  consent  to  her  marrying  him,  but  she  did 
marry  him  just  the  same;  and  they  were  as  loving  a 
couple  as  I  ever  saw.  They  thought  everything  of  each 
other,  and  when  he  got  his  wages  he'd  always  bring 
'em  home  and  give  the  whole  into  her  keeping.  Then, 
if  he  wanted  of  an  evening  to  go  down  town  he'd  say, 
'  May,  there  are  one  or  two  things  I  want  to  buy.  Let 
me  have  three  or  four  dollars.' 

"She'd  probably  give  him  twice  what  he  asked 
for — they  were  just  that  trustful  of  each  other.     Well, 


322     Highways  and  Byways  of  the  Pacific  Coast 

two  years  passed,  and  he  was  killed  in  a  collision,  and 
left  May  with  a  little  baby  girl.  May  couldn't  get  over 
his  loss.  She  tried  to  be  brave,  she  tried  to  act  cheerful; 
but  she  was  thinkin'  of  him  all  the  time,  and  when  she 
was  taken  sick  she  didn't  make  a  good  fight  against 
the  disease  and  she  died. 

"Her  folks  took  the  baby,  and  yet  because  the  child 
was  the  daughter  of  a  man  whom  they  didn't  approve  of 
it  wasn't  welcome.  They  didn't  treat  it  right.  They 
couldn't  forgive  May  for  marrying  as  she  did.  But 
heavens!  what  fault  was  that  of  the  baby's  ?  It  used  to 
make  me  wild,  and  I'd  tell  'em  what  I  thought  of  'em. 
That  didn't  do  any  good,  and  at  last  I  took  the  baby  away 
from  the  whole  bunch.  Ever  since,  I've  supported  her. 
She's  at  school  back  East  now,  and  she'll  be  sixteen 
next  month.  You  ought  to  see  her  letters.  She's  no 
sponge.  She  never  begs  for  money,  but  if  there's  any- 
thing she  wants  she'll  say  she'd  like  it  if  I  think  best, 
and  the  money  to  buy  what  she  wants  goes  to  her  as 
fast  as  the  mail  will  carry  it.  I've  bought  lots  of 
jewelry  and  clothing  for  her,  and  there's  few  girls  has 
more  nice  things  than  she  does.  She's  not  spoiled, 
either. 

"About  once  a  year  I  go  East  to  visit  her.  She's 
never  seen  me  as  I  am  now,  no,  sir!  I  wear  a  good 
suit  of  clothes,  and  I  fix  up  all  right,  and  I  wouldn't 
think  of  touching  even  a  glass  of  beer  for  a  week  before, 


The  Niagara  of  the  West  323 

lest  she  should  smell  it  in  my  breath.  When  I  come 
away  I  always  hide  a  twenty  dollar  gold  piece  some- 
where so  she'll  find  it  when  I'm  gone.  Yes,  taking  care 
of  that  baby  is  the  only  good  thing  I've  ever  done.  I'm 
pretty  useless  to  anyone  and  everyone  but  her.  I  only 
wish  I  was  what  she,  thinks  I  am.  Say,  stranger,  my 
life  would  have  been  a  blank  these  last  dozen  years 
without  her  to  work  for." 

It  was  midnight.  The  moon  and  stars  looked  down 
serenely  from  the  vastness  of  the  heavens  and  the 
saloons  over  across  the  tracks  in  the  gloomy  village 
were  still  brilliant  and  noisy.  Approaching  from  the 
west  I  could  see  the  headlight  of  my  train,  and  off"  in 
the  sagebrush,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  hamlet,  I  could 
hear  the  weird  yelping  of  a  coyote. 

Note. — The  Shoshone  Kails  is  scarcely  less  worthy  of  the  atten- 
tion of  the  tourist  than  Niagara,  and  access  to  it  is  now  reasonably 
easy.  The  river  has  various  other  attractive  features  both  above  and 
below  the  falls;  and  an  added  interest  attaches  to  the  region  because 
a  very  large  area  of  what  was  a  sagebrush  desert  has  recently  been 
reclaimed  by  one  of  the  biggest  irrigation  schemes  ever  attempted. 
Much  can  be  seen  in  a  single  day,  but  a  longer  stay  is  preferable. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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